


On the Run with the Lawman

by thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Cop Dean, Cowboy Dean, Deputy Dean, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mobster Castiel, Rough Sex, Russian Castiel, Smut, Suspense, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11494353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: Serving an arrest warrant to the man who shared his bed three months ago isn't the reunion Sweetwater Springs Deputy Dean Winchester fantasized about. But when two armed thugs show up, he realizes that Jimmy Novak isn't his quarry—but a killer's target.With his witness protection cover blown, the only way for Castiel Krushnic to clear his name and save his sister is to team up with the sexy cowboy cop. Giving into passion before was a mistake he can't afford to repeat, especially when Dean learns who he really is. But as they work together to bring a dangerous criminal to justice, can he resist the Texas lawman sworn to protect him at any cost?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This might actually be my favorite thing I've ever written. And that's saying something. Written for the Destiel Harlequin Challenge, aka the best source of prompts imaginable. 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Emma](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo) for helping me get this fic finished, and for being a great beta. She's a rockstar.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/)! Come talk to me about things. Tell me to write. Maybe it'll work. Who knows.

The sun has only barely begun to peek over the horizon when Castiel slips out of the bed, leaving behind the warm sheets and warmer body next to the space he had previously occupied. They had cleaned themselves up before they fell asleep, but only barely; Castiel’s thighs still feel tacky, and he’s a touch too sore for it to be pleasant.

He finds his shirt draped over the end of the bed, his jeans and underwear in a tangled ball closer to the door. His socks are nowhere in sight, and so quickly get written off as a lost cause. He dresses as quickly and quietly as he can, pausing only once when the man in the bed rolls over and into the vacant space next to him. As Castiel watches, Dean’s face pinches with displeasure, but whether that’s because he realizes the sheets are going cold beside him or for some other reason is impossible to determine, because his expression smooths back out only a moment later.

When he doesn’t wake, Castiel lets out a breath of relief. Coming here was a mistake, and he doesn’t want to have to explain that to Dean’s face. With how kind Dean had been to him at the bar where they met, and how tender he was in bed…

Dean may very well not be in the market for more than a one-night stand, but no matter what, Castiel needs to make his own stance clear. He was weak for allowing this to happen once. He shouldn’t have opened himself up to Dean, or told him as much about himself as he did. It can’t happen again.

He won’t endanger anyone like that.

Once he’s dressed, Castiel takes one final look at the man in the bed, then exits the bedroom on silent feet. He picks his way through the dark house with a surprising amount of ease, considering he doesn’t remember actually seeing any of it on the way in, and steps into his boots before he can talk himself out of it. There’s a whispered voice in the back of his mind telling him to go back, to crawl once more into Dean’s bed as if he never got out of it, to let himself have this, at least till morning.

He opens and closes the front door as quietly as he can, and makes sure to leave it locked behind him. He doesn’t have a coat, but even in the middle of the night, the waning Texan summer is warm enough for him to be comfortable. His boots are already too tight around his ankles, even without his socks as padding, but there’s little to be done about that. It’s the price he has to pay to blend in. He steels himself as he strides across Dean’s property, shrugging off his discomfort.

He has a long walk ahead of him.

~ ** ~

In the backseat of the cruiser, Jimmy is quiet. He has been since Dean picked him up. There was no objection to the charges Dean leveled against him, or to the Miranda Rights that were recited, or even to the handcuffs that were locked around his wrists—there was only wide-eyed surprise and thin-pressed lips, and an overwhelming amount of silence.

In all the time Dean had spent imagining their reunion, never once did he think it would go like this.

When he met Jimmy Novak three months prior, Dean had been ensnared by him instantly. As the newcomer to a small town, Jimmy had a lot of eyes on him, but to Dean in particular, he was like a damn siren. A city boy in a small country town, witty as hell and pretty enough to make anyone who crossed his path a little hot under the collar, and, most importantly, receptive to Dean’s flirting and offers of drinks as they sat together at the bar. They chatted for hours about everything from the environment—Jimmy liked bees and loved to garden—to their favorite movies—Dean admitted to being partial to _Brokeback Mountain_ , which Jimmy thought was hilarious, but understandable—and Jimmy told him about his budding career as a novelist. Jimmy was sweet, and perfect in every way. Dean could have sworn he was in love even before they went back to his place for the night.

He hadn’t expected Jimmy to be a murderer.

And yet, here they were.

As sheriff, the notice of the state-wide search for the man responsible for a string of murders in Amarillo had come across Bobby’s desk first, and Bobby then passed it along to Dean. They have other guys who could’ve handled it, of course, Garth or Donna always being on-call, but Bobby has always known Dean too well for his own liking, and knew that he would want to bring the man in himself.

Because for Dean, this is personal. If Jimmy is a murderer, then Dean was complicit. Sweetwater Springs is a tight-knit community, and though the resort situated on the east end of town brings in a fair number of tourists, not many new people choose to make it their permanent home. Yet when people expressed their instinctual distrust of the town’s new, mysterious recluse, Dean was the first to soothe their worries and spread assurances that Jimmy Novak would come out of his shell if and when he was ready, that he was sure to have a story, that there was nothing to be afraid of.

Dean was raised to keep his mind open to everyone, and to be inviting until he had a decisive reason not to be. That extended to strangers, of course, and in Jimmy’s case, held true even after it was made clear that their one night together was just that—one night. Dean may have held a flame, but he didn’t hold a grudge.

But after months of Dean blindly trusting Jimmy, Jimmy betrayed that trust. And that is what makes Jimmy Dean’s responsibility.

Jimmy only speaks once on the way to the station, when they’re at a stop light only a few blocks away. He clears his throat first, and when Dean looks back at him in the rear-view mirror, blue eyes only meet his own for a fraction of a second before dropping in shame.

“Will I get a phone call?”

Even though Jimmy can’t see him, Dean frowns. Brought in on murder charges, and his priority is his phone call? “Eventually,” is the snappish answer Dean gives. “If you’re hoping to call in some hotshot lawyer to swoop in and save you, I’d recommend you save your time. They’ve already got you by DNA. It’s over.”

“Jesus,” Jimmy breathes, and Dean agrees. Neither say another word for the duration of the drive.

Jimmy is back to being quiet and compliant when they reach the station, allowing Dean to manhandle him out of the cruiser and through the front doors without a peep. His silence is much more brooding than it had been, however, the man’s brow furrowed and his eyes fixed on nothing. Dean almost wants to ask what his damage is. _Almost_.

He decides he doesn’t care.

Booking Jimmy goes easily enough. Donna is still around to help with the bulk of it, and Bobby watches from the doorway to his office. Dean exchanges a few words with him while Donna takes Jimmy’s picture for their records, and agrees to keep an eye on Jimmy overnight, until officers from the city can come pick him up and take him to a bigger facility before he inevitably has to go to court. Dean nods in agreement and starts to leave, but Bobby stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do this, boy,” the sheriff tells him, pushing up his Stetson and casting a pointed look in Jimmy’s direction. “Me or Donna could handle this just fine. Hell, I could even call Garth in and have him babysit. You’ve already done the hard part.”

Dean shakes his head, and tries to ignore the twist in his stomach at the thought of someone else holding the fort for the night. “No, I got this. Ellen’ll kill you if you’re not at the banquet tonight, and I know Donna and Garth both want to be there, too. Garth promised Bess weeks ago. Besides.” He claps Bobby on the back, then starts to make a hasty retreat. “I’m used to babysitting your sorry old ass all the time, how different is this?”

Bobby scowls and swears at him under his breath. Dean doesn’t catch more than ‘little idjit’, but that’s still enough to make him chuckle. And that, in turn, is almost enough to distract him.

That is, until he twists on his heel and makes eye contact with Jimmy. The man’s eyes are wide, but soft, like he was appreciating Dean’s laughter, too. The expression dissipates before Dean can figure out what to do with it, and is replaced by a resting scowl as Jimmy turns his attention back to Donna and whatever it is she’s reciting to him.

Dean doesn’t feel good about much of anything after that. He storms off to his office and pours himself two fingers of whiskey. He’s going to need it, for the night he has ahead of him.

~ ** ~

The Sweetwater Springs Police Department’s holding cell is lacking, to say the least. Dean might call the town home, but he’s not afraid to point out it’s weak points, and this is certainly one of them.

The walls, floor, and ceiling are all plain, grey concrete, and the bars making up the front side are sturdy, but clearly dated. A small enough person could probably slip right out from between the bars, given the absurd amount of space between some of the rows. They don’t often have to put the cell to use, thankfully, but now that there’s a high-risk criminal seated behind the shoddy iron bars, Dean is hyperaware of all of the possible deficiencies.

Jimmy is sitting against the back wall, just as he has been since Dean pushed him through the door and locked it behind him. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed, giving him an ethereal sort of beauty beneath the can-light in his cell. Sitting behind a desk opposite the cell, Dean can’t help but be caught by the sight.

That is, until Jimmy’s eyes slit open, and Dean hurriedly turns away and scowls. He tries to make himself look busy on the aging computer in front of him, clicking around sporadically to give the illusion that he’s doing something important. Not that Jimmy can see the screen from the cell, anyway; if he could, he would undoubtedly comment on Dean’s weak game of solitaire.

Jimmy sighs loudly, and Dean twitches.

“Can I make a phone call?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dean looks up from his digital cards to give Jimmy a stern look. The single light above him has a strange effect on the shadows around his jaw and throat; Dean has to work hard to try to convince himself the man looks dangerous. He firmly reminds himself that there’s a _reason_ he doesn’t have patience for this, even if it’s already feeling like too much effort.

“Already told you, Novak,” he replies sharply, “they’ve got you, it’s over. Y’ain’t getting away from this.”

Jimmy makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Would it kill you to take my question seriously? I’m allowed access to a lawyer anyway, it wouldn’t even make sense for me to push to call for legal support.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, his game of solitaire momentarily going forgotten. “Who are you itching to call, then? Partner in crime? Primary witness? Need to let someone know that you blew your cover? Bet you thought you were pretty slick, sleeping with the deputy to get him on your side, but I gotta say, being wanted for murder kind of trumps the appeal.” The more he says, the more irritated he feels. He directs a sneer at Jimmy and finishes, “Maybe you should’ve committed to more than a one-night stand if you wanted me in your pocket.”

He’s never hated the six-pointed deputy star on his chest more than he does right now. He’d thought it was _real_ , damnit. But the badge—somehow, it always comes back to the badge.

Instead of giving into Dean’s goading like the deputy is halfway hoping for, Jimmy merely clenches his jaw and looks away. A few moments pass in tense silence before he says again, his voice notably more subdued, “I need to make a phone call.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dean stands up with a huff and flicks off the power on the computer monitor, then stomps over to the corded phone on the wall next to Jimmy’s cell. If the guy wants his damn call so bad—fine. Giving in is going to be faster than fighting, and the damn murderer can shut his trap afterwards. Hell, Dean might even treat himself to another glass of whiskey to help pass the time. He pulls the phone off of its hook and offers it to Jimmy with jerky movements. “Here you go, asshole. Have your damn phone call. I’ll dial the number for you.”

For a moment, Jimmy just blinks at Dean in surprise. Then he huffs and, in a display of strength and agility which does _not_ make Dean’s mouth go dry, thank you very much, plants his feet on the floor and rolls his body upright to a standing position. He dusts off his jeans and straightens out his white button-down; the delay makes Dean grit his teeth, but Jimmy pays him no mind, and simply reaches through the bars to accept the phone.

“Thank you,” Jimmy says earnestly. It takes some of the wind out of Dean’s sails, and he merely nods in response, not meeting the man’s eyes. He has his index finger prepped over the dial pad, ready for a number to be recited. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jimmy raise the phone to his ear, but instead of offering up the string of numbers Dean is prepped for, Jimmy frowns and holds the phone back out.

“The line is dead.”

“What?” Dean takes the phone and holds it to his own ear. Sure enough, there’s no dial tone coming through the speaker. He does a quick check of the cords, unplugs the phone line and replugs it back in, but it doesn’t change anything. He mashes a few buttons just for the hell of it, but, unsurprisingly, the line remains dead.

Jimmy’s knuckles are white with how tightly he’s gripping the bars of the cell door, and his face is all the way through one of the open gaps. Dean ignores him as he slams the phone back on the receiver, then crosses back over to the desk to check the phone there.

Dead.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, wracking his brain for possible explanations. He’s worked with the Sweetwater Springs Police Department for almost ten years, and the only time in all those years that the phones went out was back when they were hit by a storm so bad that most of the town was without power for the better part of a week in the aftermath. That time, it made sense. Every emergency backup the town had was failing.

This isn’t like that.

The door of the holding cell creaks on its hinges as Jimmy leans against it, the man straining against the bars in an effort to get closer to Dean, as if doing so will allow him to understand the trepidation which has settled over the deputy. “What is it?” he demands, his head completely out of the cell when Dean looks up at him. “What happened, is that line any better?”

Dean considers not telling him, the thought crossing his mind that this could all be some ruse for Jimmy to break out or be _broken out_ , but then he actually looks at Jimmy. The man sounds far too genuinely terrified, _looks_ far too genuinely terrified, what with the way his eyes are blown wide and his knuckles are white around the bars of the cell, for this to be his doing. Dean shakes his head. “Think someone’s cut the phone lines. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But at least they didn’t—”

Before he can finish his sentence, the station’s power goes out. Everything goes black with a hum of dying electricity, the holding room plunging into darkness.

Dean finishes, “…cut the power.”

A hysterical laugh bursts from Jimmy’s lips.

The station’s backup systems come on a few seconds later, a single, red light in the ceiling illuminating the holding room. Through the doorway to the rest of the station, Dean can see that similar lights are now lit in all of the main spaces, though those ones are all dull, white lights. They cast the whole station into shadow, only barely providing enough light to see by. The sun set hours ago, as is made incredibly obvious by the black-as-pitch windows.

Even with the emergency lights on, however, the station is still quiet enough that a pin-drop could be heard. The cell door creaks again, this time as Jimmy stops leaning against it, and the ragged in-and-out of the man’s breathing is the only sound in the room.

Until, that is, Dean slides his revolver out of the holster at his hip and clicks back the hammer. He glances back at Jimmy, whose wide, blue eyes look almost black under the glare of the red light. Dean’s breath catches at the sight, and he is nearly distracted by it. He shakes his head to clear it.

“I’m going to investigate,” he announces. He gives Jimmy a pointed look. “Unless you know what’s going on?”

Jimmy visibly jolts, then shakes his head frantically. “No, I—Dean, I swear, this isn’t my doing. Even if I wanted to arrange something like this, when would I have? You’ve been with me since I discovered I was under arrest, and the phone lines were cut before I could get a phone call. I wouldn’t endanger you like this, I _promise_.”

Dean assesses him for a long, silent moment, then answers with a sharp nod. Maybe it’s naïve of him to trust a murderer, maybe he shouldn’t, but damnit, he can’t help but believe him. Whether it’s the earnestness in Jimmy’s eyes or the fear that sways him is impossible to determine, and he doesn’t have the time for it right now anyway.

Still, he warns, “If you do anything suspicious, I will not hesitate to shoot you.”

Jimmy gulps, then hurries to nod. Satisfied, Dean steps out of the holding room. He keeps his gun close to his body and trained on the floor, carefully peering around every shadowy corner as he begins to explore the dim station.

Nothing seems out of place. There’s no sound, no movement. Dean creeps through the room, cautious of every shadow and silhouette. He steadily starts making his way toward the locker room, because even if nothing is actually going on, he needs to get his cell phone and call Bobby for backup.

He doesn’t make it more than halfway there when he hears glass shattering on the opposite side of the station. Before he can make it more than a step in that direction, an unseen body collides with his own. The hulking figure emerges from the shadows with a nearly-inhuman growl, shoulder-checking Dean and sending him sprawling.

Looming over him, the figure chuckles. Dean rolls onto his back just in time to see the dark-skinned man pull a wicked looking knife out of his belt, which he admires with glee before beginning to descend on Dean. It looks horribly out of place against his expensive-looking suit, yet entirely natural in his hand, from the way he flips it between his fingers.

“Mr. Krushnic sends his regards,” the man says, speaking with a thick, Russian accent. Dean doesn’t wait to hear any more.

He kicks the man when he tries to kneel over him, catching him in the kidney with the elevated heel of his boot to unbalance him, then raises his revolver in a single, smooth motion and fires it without hesitation.

The man drops like a ton of bricks. His white dress shirt rapidly stains red over the new hole in his heart as he collapses backwards, proving he’s dead long before he hits the floor.

From elsewhere in the station, there are a pair of shouts, and then two gunshots in quick succession.

Dean’s stomach plummets to his feet. He scrambles to his feet and sprints to the holding room, dreading what he’s going to find there. If Jimmy is dead, if he let Jimmy be murdered on his watch, in _his_ station—

When he bursts into the room, there’s a dead body on the floor.

And standing over it, gun held tight in his hand through the gaps in the cell bars, is Jimmy. There’s blood splattered across his white shirt, undoubtedly from the dead man at his feet. The substance looks black beneath the light of the red bulb above. There’s more of it, too, leaking from a torn patch of shirt on Jimmy’s right bicep.

The first of the two gunshots, Dean is sure.

Before Dean can find his voice, Jimmy looks up at him. At first, there’s no recognition in his eyes—and then he blinks, his expression shifts, and horror floods in. He drops the gun with a gasp and jerks backwards.

“Oh god,” he says, and even from a distance, Dean can see how badly he’s shaking. He watches as the man presses a hand to his mouth, then to the injury on his arm—though he doesn’t seem to feel the injury just yet, because he looks surprised when his hand comes away wet. His panic increases. “ _Oh god_. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—I mean, I—”

“Hey hey, it’s okay,” Dean rushes to reassure, even though it’s nothing of the sort. He sidesteps the corpse on the floor and places himself closer to the cell than is probably wise, then kicks the gun away with the toe of his boot. The sound of it skittering across the cement floor makes him feel marginally better, though he still casts a wary look down at the body at his feet. It looks a lot like the one who had attacked him, and is dressed almost identically. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

He does, however, see what their target was.

Dean clenches his jaw, forcing his concern for Jimmy to take a temporary backseat. “Alright, start talking. Who were these guys? What were they doing here, why were they after you?”

Jimmy starts to shake even harder. He doesn’t answer.

“Did you know these men?”

It takes a few seconds, but Jimmy manages a jerky nod. Every inch of him is wound tight, his trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides. As far as Dean can tell, the man is still in shock; he isn’t sure whether his questions are going to help or hinder that fact, but he presses on anyway.

“Jimmy. Who were they?”

Jimmy flinches, unintentionally answering Dean’s mental debate. _Hinder it is_. “Fuck,” he says, eyes darting down to the corpse before briefly turning on Dean. Jimmy stumbles backwards, backing himself against the wall. “ _Fuck_. No, they—they didn’t—”

“Jimmy. _Who were they_.”

“He found me,” he says, and god, he sounds close to tears. The man curls in on himself, his hands coming up to tug frantically at his hair. He lets out a string of what sound like curses in a language Dean is bewildered to realize he can’t identify before babbling in English, “He found me, he found me, he found me. Jesus Christ, how did he _find me_?”

“Jimmy! Who found you, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean grabs the cell door and rattles it, hoping that the sharp clang of the metal will jar the man into making some sense. His shouting, apparently, has no effect. Not that that stops him. “James Novak, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on, right now.”

Jimmy does finally look up, a bolt of shock crossing his features and temporarily breaking his panic. “Yes,” he says, nonsensically, “yes, that’s me. Yes, I—Oh. _Oh_.” As Dean watches, Jimmy’s face crumples, and the rest of him follows soon after as he falls to the floor. “The arrest warrant,” he moans. “ _Damnit_. I just thought it was some weird fluke, I was so _stupid_. Stupid stupid stupid.”

Despite the fact that Jimmy is clearly having a meltdown, Dean’s frustration is mounting. He just killed a man, and apparently Jimmy did too; Jimmy is bleeding, the power is still out, and Dean doesn’t know nearly enough of what the hell is happening to be kosher with any of it. The man’s rambling is beyond comprehension.

He rattles the cell door again. “Jimmy,” he repeats, this time trying to keep his tone level. Earnest. “Jimmy, I need you to talk to me, buddy, okay? Who found you? Who were these guys?”

“It’s—” Jimmy’s head snaps up suddenly, blue eyes wild with fear but no less intense for it as they bore into him. “It’s Lucifer, it has to be. But if he found me, he might have found her—” He cuts off again. For a single moment, he’s completely still, his hands finally ceasing in their pulling at his hair. And then he launches to his feet and throws himself at the bars of his cell, grabbing at them next to where Dean’s hands are still locked around them as well. He leaves dark smudges of blood everywhere his left hand touches.

“Dean. Dean, you have to let me out. You have to let me out _now_ , I need to get out, I need to know that she’s safe.”

Dean reels at the abrupt shift in demeanor, shock having been the primary factor keeping him in place when Jimmy lunged. It’s a miracle that he keeps his voice level when he asks, “Who is ‘she’?”

“My sister,” Jimmy says. His voice is still frantic, the words tumbling over one another as he rushes to get them all out. “If he found me, then he might have found her, and I can’t let that happen. I did this to keep her safe, I can’t fail that now. If he hasn’t gotten to her, he will. I need to know, I need to warm her.”

 _I thought you were an only child_ , Dean wants to say, but he bites his tongue. They’re far beyond the content of the night they spent at the bar, by this point. It obviously wasn’t the truth, anyway. The revelation makes Dean wonder just how much else of that night was a lie.

He has to channel every ounce of his professional training to ask instead, “Who do you have to warn her about?”

Jimmy squeezes his eyes closed. At first Dean thinks he’s going to continue to be kept in the dark, but that’s thankfully not the case. Jimmy takes a steadying breath.

“Lucifer Krushnic.”

Dean inhales sharply. He hadn’t thought twice about the name when he heard it in either increment—Jimmy said ‘Lucifer’, the thug who attacked him said ‘Mr. Krushnic’—but now that it’s been strung together for him, he feels like an idiot.

Lucifer Krushnic. The country’s biggest mobster, so infamous that even a small-town deputy like Dean has heard of him. He’d been little more than a legend for years—that is, until about six months ago, when someone close to the criminal blew his operation wide open. It was more than enough to arrest, but Lucifer was a slippery bastard, and went missing shortly after. Missing, but not inactive, it seems.

He’s on the brink of asking what Jimmy and his sister could have possibly done to get themselves on Lucifer Krushnic’s shit-list, but Jimmy beats him to the punch. When the man’s eyes reopen, there’s a forced calm in their depths the likes of which Dean has never seen. It sends a chill down his spine.

“He’s my brother,” Jimmy says, and Dean’s eyes widen. He swears he feels the fabric of his own, personal corner of the universe begin to tear at the confession.

And then, “My name isn’t Jimmy Novak. It’s Castiel Krushnic.”

~ ** ~

“Castiel Krushnic.”

Castiel winces. It sounds even worse coming off of Dean’s tongue, the man’s tone flat yet somehow still screaming of betrayal. Castiel already hates this conversation, though he knows it’s a necessary evil. A muscle in the side of his jaw twitches from the force with which he grinds his teeth together. _He might have her, there’s no time for this._ “Yes.”

Dean runs his tongue along the front of his teeth, eyes falling off to a distant point over Castiel’s shoulder. “So you lied to me,” he continues. “All of it, then—all of it was a lie? Everything about your life here. It was all just a story, made up to hide you from being arrested like he was?”

At that, Castiel scowls. “If I were aligned with my brother, Dean, why would he have hunted me down and sent his men to kill me?”

Dean blinks, surprise flitting across his features for a fraction of a second before swiftly being masked with a frown. Castiel watches as Dean’s jaw works, words forming but none escaping, until the deputy finally says, “Fine. Then explain to me why he’s trying to have you killed. Is it because you were caught killing someone? You’re no use to him now that your fingerprints are in the system, or what?”

“I turned him in!” Castiel snaps. It’s stupid, he knows, his gut tells him that much, but he still presses himself even closer to the bars of his cage, closer to _Dean_ , his expression alight with fury. Castiel is getting sick of his accusations. “If you know my brother’s name, then surely you know what happened to him. ‘Jimmy Novak’ wasn’t a lie, it was my _witness protection_. When I gave the government the hard evidence they needed on all of Lucifer’s criminal activities, paved the path for him to be imprisoned for life, I couldn’t very well continue to share his name, now could I? Especially when he was tipped off before I could even finish selling him out and he went _missing_. Tell me, Dean. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is? Having a man like that disappear right out from under your thumb?”

Dean’s mouth has gone slack. “Jimmy, I—”

Castiel cuts him off with a huff. “My name isn’t Jimmy. You know that now, so there’s no use pretending.”

Dean pulls a face, but straightens himself out and squares his shoulders. “ _Castiel_ ,” he corrects, stretching the name like he’s testing it out. His throat bobs when he swallows, and Castiel gets the impression that he’s trying to gather his courage. “You’re still a murderer. Three people dead in Amarillo, your DNA found on-scene. So even if you are a _Krushnic_ , even if you turned him in—none of it matters. Sorry about your family drama, but none of it means jack from where I’m standing, pal. I’m still an officer of the law, first and foremost.”

Castiel had already managed to come full circle and forget about that again. He quickly shakes his head. “No, I—Dean, I didn’t kill anyone. I know that’s what you’ve been told, but I swear it. You said yourself that there was DNA evidence incriminating me, didn’t you? That was the only surefire way he could find me. I don’t know what DNA he used, but he managed to blow my witness protection, smoke me out of hiding, and corner me for his lackeys all in one fell swoop. I know you’re a smart man, you must be able to see that.”

The skeptical look Dean has been carrying begins to waver. His lips part like he’s going to argue in some way, but Castiel rushes to add more, wanting to take advantage of Dean’s weakening resolve.

“Dean, please. You can look me up, I know my name is out there as a Krushnic, that much can be verified. And look into the details of the murders in Amarillo. They might not even exist, for all I know. My brother either had those people killed, which means the details will clearly be skewed upon inspection, or they were all entirely fabricated. Lucifer is powerful, and resourceful. He has people everywhere; I had to hide myself in a town as small as Sweetwater Springs for a reason.”

Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pursing his lips and glancing back to the rest of the station through the open door of the holding room. Castiel wonders what the dead body out there looks like. He wonders how close Dean came to being killed because of him.

All his life, he’s been putting people at risk wherever he goes. When does it stop?

“If nothing else…” Dean hedges, stopping Castiel’s self-deprecating spiral of thoughts before it can take hold any more than it already has. The deputy’s gaze slides down to the body at his feet, then up to Castiel. “If nothing else, I can’t keep you here. No matter what happened with those murders, even if you’re lying to me… It isn’t safe here.” He sighs, rubs his hand across his mouth, glances at the body again. “I’m going to ask you a couple questions, and I want honest answers. Got it?”

Castiel nods without hesitation, a touch too quickly. It makes him feel dizzy. He isn’t sure whether he should blame that on the slow, continuing trickle of blood loss from his arm, his fading adrenaline rush now that Lucifer’s thugs have been dealt with, or both. Even the red emergency light is messing with his equilibrium; he’s weaker right now than he normally is. But no matter how his issues are sliced, Dean doesn’t seem to notice them, and that’s what matters. Castiel won’t appear weak in front of him, not now that the man knows who he is.

“First question. That night, when we slept together. How much of it did you mean, how much of it was a lie?”

The question is not at all what Castiel expected, and he physically jolts at the surprise of it. He had been bracing himself for questions about his past, or about Lucifer—not questions about _their_ history. Not about the one night they spent together, all those months ago.

 _Three months_ , a soft voice in the back of his mind corrects. _Only three. Not that long ago, really_.

Not so long ago that Castiel can’t remember every intimate detail. Not so long that he can’t remember the charm Dean had deployed to pull him in, or the sweet, Southern twang to his voice that made itself especially known when he called Castiel _sweetheart_ , _baby_ , _darlin’_.

He closes his eyes tight against the onslaught of memories that suddenly threatens to overwhelm him.

But Dean asked for honest answers. So Castiel is going to give them.

“I meant all of it. The name and basic history I gave you were my witness protection, but aside from that, I was myself. I didn’t lie to you.”

Castiel doesn’t open his eyes, but he hears Dean huff a bit at that. What kind of response that was supposed to be, Castiel has no idea, but he doesn’t dare check. Regardless of whether Dean believes him or not, seeing one of those expressions on the man’s face will weaken his growing resolve to be smart about all of this. Admitting that he didn’t lie is already detrimental enough.

A few seconds pass in silence before Dean asks his next question.

“Are you taking advantage of my feelings for you and manipulating me into doing what you want?”

And just like that, Castiel’s eyes are snapping open. His grip tightens around the steel bars of the cell. “Dean, I—no! No, I would never. I meant it, okay? I didn’t lie that night, I already told you that. I didn’t even know you were the deputy until you told me yourself, and by then, you had already bought me a drink. I’m not the kind of person who would manipulate _anyone_ like that, let alone—” He forcibly cuts himself off before he can dig himself into a bigger hole.

 _Let alone someone as good as you_.

For several long, drawn-out seconds, all Dean does is stare at him. The deputy seems to be weighing his options, trying to determine whether or not believing Castiel will equate to shooting himself in the foot. Castiel can’t say he blames him; his life may be on the line, but Dean’s _everything_ is on the line. His life is also in danger for his proximity to the renegade Krushnic and for his position as a roadblock between Castiel and Lucifer—two things Castiel is desperate to remedy, if given the chance—but it’s not just that. Dean’s job is also in danger, his home, his family, his friends. He vaguely recalls Dean telling him that the sheriff is a close family friend of his, but that doesn’t change the fact that by helping Castiel right now, he may very well be ending his career.

Dean reaches for his belt, his hand going toward the revolver holstered at his upper thigh. Castiel tenses—but then Dean’s fingers bypass the gun completely and instead unhook the set of keys which is secured to his belt just above the thigh holster. He flicks the keys around to pinch the lone gold one between his fingers, runs the pad of his thumb along the cut edge, then steps around the body on the floor to unlock the cell.

Castiel stands rooted in place by shock, hardly able to process what he’s witnessing. Dean is letting him go. Dean is going to let him _leave_. He can leave Sweetwater Springs in peace, he can go find Anna, he can finally deal with Lucifer once and for all—

“I can’t open the door if you’re standing there, buddy.”

Castiel stumbles over his feet in his rush to move out of the way. Dean snorts, but shoves at the door without comment, allowing it to swing into the cell with a slight whining of the hinges. The wave of relief that crashes over Castiel is so strong that he sways on his feet, and his vision goes dark around the edges.

Or, maybe that’s the blood loss. There seems to be quite a bit of it soaked into the fabric of his shirtsleeve, now; he knows the bullet mostly passed him by, but he still wonders what kind of gouge it cut in his arm before lodging itself into the stone behind him.

The sense of freedom that engulfed Castiel only grows stronger when he walks through the doorway of his cage. He carefully sidesteps the body on the floor, pointedly not sparing so much as a passing glance at the remains of a man he once knew.

Inias may have been one of Lucifer’s best, but he was never better than Castiel. His brother should have known better.

Without having to say a word on the matter, Dean and Castiel both move out of the holding room and into the main part of the station. The emergency back-up lighting out there isn’t terribly bright, but it’s a normal-colored light, at least, and Castiel sighs softly in relief. He rubs at his eyes to try to force them to adjust to the new color tone; it’ll happen eventually, he knows, but right now, it’s an irritant and he wants it to pass as quickly as possible.

Dean seems to be doing something similar, as well as appraising the station. There’s evidence of the scuffle Dean had had prior to returning to the holding room, a rucked-up desk and pair of chairs, and Castiel knows he had heard the sound of glass breaking at some point, even though he can’t see that mess from where they are currently. He regrets the fact that this is now all one big mess which Dean must clean up.

But unfortunately, regretting the circumstances isn’t enough to change them.

Castiel flexes his hands at his sides, ignoring the feeling of his own blood drying between his fingers as he raises his gaze and pins the deputy with a stare. “Dean. I can’t thank you enough for this. I won’t waste the opportunity you’re giving me, I swear it. I will deal with my brother, and you will never have to see me again—”

“Whoa, wait, hold on.” Dean folds his arms across his chest, silencing Castiel with a stern look. “I’m not _letting you go_. Do you honestly think I’m going to let you just walk out of here, alone? Two men just came in here to try to kill you, and I doubt it was just the two of them working alone.”

“I—” Castiel cuts himself off, his jaw snapping shut with a clack of teeth while his brows pinch. He presses his left hand against the wound on his arm, but the other clenches into a fist.

He hates to admit it, but Dean might be right. He knows his brother, and that means that he knows Lucifer isn’t one to risk failure. The men he sent were probably among his best—but even still, if there was any chance that they might fail, Lucifer would have had plans B through Z in place to ensure he got Castiel’s head on a pike. They may be brothers, but Castiel still ruined everything he had going. He has made himself more than worth the expending of resources.

But that doesn’t explain the nonsense Dean is spewing.

The deputy carries on before Castiel can find his tongue, and says with a tone of finality, “I’m going with you.”

For a brief moment, Castiel’s brain short circuits. He blinks while he waits for it to come back online, the half-formed thoughts which form in the interim all circling around one word.

_What?_

“Dean,” he says, and when his voice comes out too rough, he takes a breath and wets his lips. “Dean, I can’t let you do that. You’ve already killed a man for me, I won’t ask any more of you. If you align yourself with me, then Lucifer will find out, and even from wherever it is that he’s hiding, he will make your life miserable. I know him better than anyone, just listen—”

Dean cuts him off with a shake of his head. “No. Whether you were just here as part of your witness protection or not, you live in my town, and trouble came to you when I arrested you. That makes this mess at least partially my responsibility.” He waits a beat, then gestures vaguely at the dead thug halfway across the room. Castiel can only see his legs. “Besides, what are you going to do when more of these jackasses come after you? Cross your fingers and hope you can get close enough to steal one of their guns again? You don’t have the resources that I do. And I’m highly trained, besides. You’ll stand your best chance with me.”

Some of Dean’s argument is making sense, but the thought of losing this argument is infuriating, so Castiel brushes it off with a scoff. “Highly trained,” he parrots—it’s the only part of Dean’s spiel he knows he can refute. “You’re a small-town cop. I grew up in the mob, Dean. Even if I was a black sheep among my family, I was raised to do a job that you can’t even comprehend.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Dean snaps in return. Agitation is clear in every line of his body, but Castiel merely raises an eyebrow, surprised by the emotion but not convinced because of its appearance. He goes on, “Hate to break it to you, pal, but you don’t know anything about me. I’m not just deputy of this town because I’m _here_. I earned this badge, and I earned it by being the best officer of the law I can be. You might think I’m just some hick with a horse, but I was the top of my class at the police academy, and over the last five years, I’ve singlehandedly taken down not one, but _three_ drug rings which tried to crop up around town. Do you have any idea how many cartel guys from bigger cities and across the border think they can take advantage of a small town like Sweetwater Springs? Too many. But none of them have made so much as a foothold here.”

Of course Castiel knows how big groups try to take advantage of small towns, towns out of the way of the wider public eye and sleepy enough not to mind turning away from some less-than-legal business—he was once the one responsible for establishing footholds of exactly that nature, back when he was young and following along blindly in his brother and father’s footsteps. He didn’t, however, know that Sweetwater Springs was a target of such extortion, let alone repeatedly. The fact that Dean was responsible for stopping three of those attempts is incredibly admirable, a testament to the man’s strength more than anything else has been so far.

Castiel swallows, gaze sliding away from the deputy. He still doesn’t want to include Dean in anything that he’s involved with, loathe as he is to endanger him, but no matter how he turns the issue over in his mind, he can’t find any alternatives. He can’t even find any downfalls, aside from the general fear of endangering Dean; the argument is too sound, and as Dean has pointed out, he’s plenty qualified.

He rubs at his temple with his clean hand and sighs. “What did you have in mind, then.”

For a brief moment, Dean’s lips split into a wide grin. He quickly schools himself back to a professional demeanor, but that doesn’t change the fact that the smile he flashed left sunspots in Castiel’s eyes. He has to fight the urge to rub at them again.

“First off,” Dean says, “we’re getting the hell out of the station. If your brother knows you’re here, then you’re a sitting duck. We’ll go back to my place in case he has anyone waiting at yours as a backup, and try to lay low for a bit. Lucifer will probably be pissed once he finds out you survived his attack, right?”

Castiel nods. His stomach twists unpleasantly at the thought of just _how_ pissed his brother will be. He feels a sharp pang of loss over the fate of his house, as well, though he can’t do more than hope that it won’t be targeted. Everything he has left is in that house. It’s the only home he has left.

Dean must be able to read some of Castiel’s fears in his expression, because his lips purse in sympathy. “That’s what I thought. And that’s why protecting you is my priority. You got me?”

Again, Castiel nods. He can see that there’s no use arguing, even if he hadn’t already given up trying.

Dean puts his hands on his hips, heaving a sigh. He jerks his head in a vague gesture toward Castiel’s arm. “How’s that doing? There’s a med kit here that we can use to patch you up, but I think I’d rather get you home first, if you think you can deal with it for that much longer.”

“I doubt anyone else will show up here that soon, but…” Castiel looks down at his hands and rolls out the arm that took the shot, testing the amount of pain when he lifts or twists it. It stings, but it’s not terrible. “I’ve had worse,” he declares, before finally raising his eyes back to Dean’s. “It can wait until we get to your house. I would prefer to leave this place as soon as possible, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, of course.” Dean takes a step backwards like he’s willing to leave right then and there, but then his eyes return to the corpse, and then dart off in the direction of the other one back in the holding room, as well. He blows out a rough breath and shakes his head. “Bobby’s not gonna like the call I’m about to give him,” he mutters, but before Castiel can determine if he’s supposed to reply to that or not, the deputy turns on the heel of his boot and hurries off into another adjoining room.

When he is gone, off doing Lord-knows-what, Castiel follows his previously-set example and casts a wary look at the body on the floor. He almost doesn’t want to know who it is. _Almost_. He glances up to make sure Dean isn’t returning yet, then gives into the dark curiosity that pulls at him and lets his feet take him closer to the hitman.

It only takes a handful of steps before he can see the man’s face, though really, he could have determined who it was before then. The skin color, the build, the infuriatingly, perfectly-shined shoes worn even in to a break-in-cum-murder—it all completely gives him away.

But despite knowing what he’s going to see before he sees it, seeing Uriel’s vacant eyes hits Castiel harder than he ever would have expected. It takes the breath out of him, makes him feel dizzy. Uriel had been one of his own, once upon a time. Some distant cousin or another, the man had been loyal to a fault, and had worked at Castiel’s side on many occasions.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there staring, but before he knows it, Dean is back at his side and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Ji—Castiel. Are you okay? You look…” His throat clicks when he swallows. “Did you know him?”

Castiel turns away, averting his eyes from both Uriel and Dean. “Uriel. The other was Inias. Both were about as high-ranking within the organization as anyone can be, without the name of Krushnic.”

Even from the corner of his eye, Castiel can see the way Dean’s eyes widen at that. It would be comical, if not for the regret that tugs at Castiel’s gut at the sight. Already, he misses the way Dean looked at him when he was Jimmy Novak, budding novelist. Outing himself as a Krushnic and then emphasizing the Krushnic chain of command certainly doesn’t help the growing distance between them in that regard.

As Castiel knows, though, it’s best if Dean is aware of what he’s getting himself into. Castiel’s enemies are dangerous, and not to be trifled with.

 _Castiel_ is dangerous.

Instead of commenting on this as Castiel is expecting, however, Dean says mildly, “Remind me not to get on your brother’s bad side.”

The statement startles a laugh out of Castiel. “Dean, you did that the moment you shot Uriel. You’re not only a nuisance for standing between me and him, you’ve also earned yourself the privilege of being a target in your own right.”

As soon as the words are out of Castiel’s mouth, he goes completely still. He hadn’t thought about that until he was already saying it, but he knows it’s true. Even if Castiel were to leave Dean behind, either to pursue Lucifer and find Anna on his own from the start or if he were to escape the deputy’s watch later—he can’t change the fact that Dean has a target painted on his back just the same as Castiel. Even if the two men who infiltrated the station are dead, Lucifer will know what happened. He always does.

“Dean, we should leave. Now.”

Dean looks up at him, but doesn’t say anything. He nods silently, then sets off toward the front door. He keeps a hand close to his gun the whole time, clearly at high-alert as he naturally takes point to lead Castiel outside.

And Castiel follows right on his heels. As they push through the front doors of the station, he swears he feels the weight of a pair of eyes on him. He doesn’t try to seek them out—if they even exist in any form beyond his paranoia—but if he hurries a little bit more to shut himself into the front seat of Dean’s cruiser once the feeling hits, well. He doesn’t think he can be blamed.

~ ** ~

Walking out of the station with Castiel Krushnic huddled close behind him like a frightened little kid is easily one of the most bizarre experiences in Dean’s life. It even outweighs the fact that _he_ , Dean Winchester, was almost killed by a minion of _Lucifer Krushnic_.

Castiel’s attempted argument about Dean being an inexperienced, small-town cop may not have held any water, but he’s still small-town enough to know that being targeted by such a big name is still a boost to his street cred.

Not that Bobby will be impressed. At all.

Dean winces at the thought.

Once they’re tucked into the front seat of Dean’s car—the Suburban’s loud engine and glaringly obvious ‘Sweetwater Springs Police Department’ labeling makes him wince yet again, when he realizes how far from inconspicuous it is—and shielded by windows which are at least semi-bulletproof, he’s able to relax for the first time in what feels like hours. A quick check of the clock reveals that it’s only been two and a half since he was left alone at the station with Jimmy—Castiel. Which means that shit only hit the fan less than an hour previously.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt so exhausted in his life.

As they get on the road toward Dean’s house, the deputy digs his cell phone out of his pocket, grateful that he at least remembered to grab it from his locker before leaving. He holds it against the steering wheel and taps through menus with his thumb, careful not to take his eyes off the road for too long in any given stretch. He can see Castiel eyeing him warily already; there’s no need to give the man reason to harass him. He turns off his GPS and any other location tracking options he can find, then opens up his phone and dials Bobby. He deliberates for a moment while the call processes, then decides to hit speaker phone out of courtesy.

Thankfully, he only has to endure the awkwardness that is silence around a connecting phone call for the duration of a single ring before Bobby picks up.

“Boy, you better have a damn good reason to be calling me from your cell right now,” is the growled greeting he receives. It would probably sound dismissive to anyone else’s ears, particularly Cas’s, who looks unsure, but Dean knows better. There’s an unmistakable edge of worry beneath the words, contained but not suppressed. Bobby knows just as well as Dean does that this call wouldn’t be being made if there wasn’t an emergency.

“Ten-thirty-three,” Dean recites in answer, and he hears Bobby swear under his breath. “Long story short, Jimmy Novak was framed, and two guys showed up to try to kill him. Broke into the station, one attacked me, one shot Jimmy and mostly missed. Nonfatal. Both assailants were killed on the scene, and I’m taking Jimmy somewhere safe.”

This time, the stream of curses Bobby lets out is far from quiet. In the background of the call, Dean can hear vague party sounds, and then a woman’s concerned voice. Probably Ellen. Dean sort of feels guilty for interrupting the resort’s winter banquet like this, but he knows it’s necessary, so he can’t feel _too_ bad about it. It would be worse if he let it be, and let Lucifer’s people—if there are more of them waiting in the wings—run free through the town.

Finally, Bobby collects himself enough to say, “I’ll call everybody in, we’ll get it handled. You’ve verified that Novak was framed?”

Dean stalls, abruptly becoming hyperaware of Castiel’s eyes boring into the side of his face. What can he say to that? ‘No, but I have a good feeling’? Maybe, ‘It’s too crazy to make up’? Bobby would have his hide, and probably demand that they both return to the station, to boot.

Dean shoots Cas a sharp look as if to say, _you owe me for this, don’t make me regret it_ , then rambles on to fill the silence he’s already let stretch on for too long, “I’ve verified. Jimmy Novak is under the supervision of the Witness Protection program, and is a known target of Lucifer Krushnic. I’ll forward you the information for his WP contact as soon as I get the chance, so you can verify it yourself and also update them on the situation.”

“ _Damnit_.” The microphone on Bobby’s phone gets muffled momentarily, dampening his voice as he barks orders to someone near him. When he comes back, it’s to say, “Dean, you keep that boy safe, you hear me? Do whatever it takes. I’ll make all the calls I need to, and get things cleaned up at the station. In the meantime, Novak is still a citizen of Sweetwater Springs, and that means you are not to let anyone at him, I don’t care who it is or what he’s done to deserve it. Do I make myself clear?”

If the situation were any less intense, Dean might have laughed at how wide Cas’s eyes go as he stares at the phone. Alternatively, he might have cried a little bit over how tragic it is that the poor guy evidently has no experience with unconditional loyalty. Jimmy Novak kept himself isolated from most of the people in town, though; he has no way of knowing what a family they all are.

Dean clears his throat. “Roger that, sheriff.”

“Keep me updated, son. Do what you gotta do, and call me back when you have more of a game plan.” And with that, Bobby hangs up, the call ending with a muted _click_.

Tension that Dean didn’t notice he’d been carrying drains from the set of his shoulders, and he lets out a rough breath. He doesn’t know if he’s speaking more to himself or to Cas when he mutters, “Well, that could’ve gone a lot worse.”

Cas makes a sound of disbelief, but doesn’t try to argue the claim. Dean, on the other hand, finds himself wondering how he’s already become _Cas_. He ruminates over it far more than he should, frowning to himself as they continue to drive around the winding back road that will eventually lead them to his home. He doesn’t regret taking the quiet route, but he’s starting to regret that that route is also the longest one.

It isn’t long before Cas pulls him back out of his headspace. The man breaks the silence which has claimed the interior of the car with a pointed clearing of his throat.

“Dean, may I use your phone?”

“Oh my god, dude, not this again.”

Cas scowls. “For your information, I was going to call my Witness Protection officer earlier. If I was going to be potentially going to trial for a murder I didn’t commit, she would have wanted to know. She would have looked into the legitimacy of the case, as well, even if it didn’t occur to me right away that it was my brother’s doing. She has many resources at her disposal.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Dean rolls his eyes and flips his phone through his fingers, passing it over to the man in the passenger seat. “But before you call anyone, you have to open up my texts and find my thread with Bobby. It’ll be labeled just like that—send him your Witness Protection person’s name and number, he’s going to need it to help us get this dealt with.”

Dean’s answer comes in the form of a curt nod, followed by the soft sound of fingertips tapping rapidly across the surface of the screen. Cas doesn’t argue or ask questions, so Dean assumes that he has it figured out.

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them while Cas does what he was asked, listening to the steady rumble of the engine as he lets his thoughts start to drift. Even with the brights switched on, the night is incredibly dark; there’s nothing to be seen beyond the cruiser’s floodlights and the occasional streetlight on this unending country road. The road isn’t traveled often enough to require them to be placed at frequent intervals, but in this scenario, the heavy blanket of night serves to make Dean feel as if they’re in their own world, an island in the universe with just him and Cas.

Cas is still tapping away on his phone when Dean asks without warning, “Why did you do it?”

The tapping abruptly stops.

“Why did I do what?” Cas asks. His voice is tight with worry, likely because he has no idea what Dean is referring to. The deputy can’t say he blames him; he hurries to elaborate, glancing quickly at the man, who is in turn staring blankly at the phone in his hands.

“Your brother,” Dean says, and somehow the tension in Cas’s frame both heightens and loosens. “Why did you turn him in?”

Cas runs his tongue along the front of his teeth, and even though Dean keeps his attention primarily on the road, he can see that his passenger is studiously avoiding looking at him. Cas taps on the phone screen a few more times, then lowers the device into his lap. He doesn’t say a word, and doesn’t look like he’s going to.

Dean opens his mouth, ready to tell Cas that they can talk about it later, but he gets cut off by a loud sigh, and then a gentle voice and carefully-chosen words.

“I did it for my sister. I am eight years younger than Lucifer, and Anna is five years younger than I am. She…” Cas drums his fingers nervously against his thigh. Dean’s own fingers twitch automatically at the gesture, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Due to that age difference, Lucifer and Anna have always been very far removed from one another. I was never exactly excited to be a part of the ‘family business’, if you will, but Anna was even less so. Lucifer has always loved her, though, so even when he took over control from our father, he didn’t push her into anything, and for the most part, he let her live her own life independent from ours.”

None of this is at all what Dean expected to be hearing, and he blinks in surprise. It’s startling to learn that two of the three Krushnics aren’t thrilled about what their family does—although he tries not to think too closely about the fact that Cas didn’t exactly deny any sort of involvement he might have had, even if he claims to have not been happy about it all—but it might be even more startling to hear that the great Lucifer Krushnic isn’t all cruel, all the time. Except… Dean hazards a glance at Cas, wondering what the twist to this happy story is going to be, and finds the man’s face has already gone dark with rage.

“We were fine until about a year ago,” Cas bites out. “I was meeting with a contact for him, a very important one, and long story short, I learned that he was building up a human trafficking network. Abducting young women and men and forcing them into prostitution, selling them as unwilling brides and sex slaves. I confronted him and told him that that is not what the Krushnics are about, and he snapped. He was already convinced that I could be a possible threat to his power, another heir to the empire, and the fact that I was questioning him dragged that to the forefront. In an effort to keep me in line, he threatened Anna. He threatened to kidnap our own sister, and sell her off to one of the sick monsters he provided for.”

Dean’s stomach twists viciously. Back when the Krushnic story first broke, he had heard about it in passing the same as everyone, maybe even read a few news articles about it—the human trafficking bit in particular had more than gained people’s attention, and Dean is disgusted now just thinking about it—but even with as fucked up as Lucifer was publicly known to be, none of it had anything on being willing to sell his sister off like a slave. Human trafficking is despicable in general, but to willingly submit a loved one to that, and to do it purely for the purpose of getting at Cas? Dean tries to imagine what he would do if anyone did _anything_ to Sam because of him, not even something as drastic as what Lucifer was threatening, but quickly has to shut the thought back down. It’s too horrifying to even consider.

Cas makes a sound of disgust at his own words. He continues his rant before Dean needs to ask him to. “I never had any intention of butting heads with my brother, but once he realized that he could use Anna to hurt me, once he actually began to _hurt her_ —I did what I had to do. I secured some of my own assets, I did the same for Anna, and when I went to the FBI, they were more than willing to offer me a deal. Mine and Anna’s safety in exchange for Lucifer’s incarceration. I didn’t tell Anna until after it was done.”

For the first time since the conversation begun, Cas looks up and catches Dean’s gaze. He looks cold, closed off, like a completely different person than the one Dean started to get to know three months ago. He looks like the man Dean walked in on in the holding cell, with a gun in his hand and a dead body at his feet.

Dean absolutely refuses to acknowledge the thrill of anticipation that goes through his gut at the sight.

“You have to understand why I did what I did. I outed everything my brother had a hand in, all of his unfavorable deeds, the trafficking, all of it. I betrayed generations worth of work, thousands of connections and deals and employees. Even though he was warned before he could be arrested, everything he ever had was destroyed. And now, because of that—” His expression shutters as he cuts himself off, and he exhales roughly. “And now he might have her again, because if he could find me, he could find her. He might have even gone for her first.”

“She’s also under witness protection?”

“Yes. She was placed in several states away, under the name Anna Milton.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, thinking back to his vague knowledge of the Krushnic empire. “But isn’t her name—?”

Cas’s eyes brighten with mirth. “Her name really is Anna, yes. Technically, Anael. She wasn’t upset about having to go into witness protection, but she refused to let her name be changed. _Anna_ is far less identifying than _Castiel_ , so the officers in charge of our relocation let it slide.”

Dean can’t help but chuckle at that, easily able to imagine what kind of woman Anna must be if she was able to make that argument work with _government agents_. He sobers quickly, though, keeping himself strictly to the issue at hand. “But you can still contact her, right?” he asks. “I mean, you know a number that’ll work for her? We can’t go back and get your phone even if you have it saved there. I’m sorry, but we can’t.”

Surprisingly, Cas’s response comes with a smile. It’s thin, and the skin around his eyes is still tight while his fingers drum nervously against the center console, but it’s there. “No, it’s quite alright. I have Anna’s number memorized, in case of an emergency such as this. So if you don’t mind…?”

Dean peels his eyes off of the road for another quick second to see Cas wave his phone slightly, and he quickly nods. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Call her. I want to know that she’s safe just as much as you do.”

An odd expression crosses Castiel’s face, but it’s there and gone again in a flash, and Dean didn’t see more than the briefest of glimpses. Dean frowns, almost asks what it was he saw, but then Cas is tapping at his phone again and within seconds, the ringing of the call is audible over the speaker.

While the ring tone plays out, Dean and Cas are both silent, tense. It makes sense for Cas to be stressed about the results of this call, of course—especially after having learned the additional history that he did, he completely understands—but it’s so easy for Dean to feel the same way that it’s almost alarming. He’s dealing with Castiel Krushnic, not Jimmy Novak, but apparently that distinction means nothing to Dean’s brain.

It _really_ doesn’t mean anything to his downstairs brain. But Dean is very much ignoring that brain right now.

The call rings out. Just as an automated voice starts to recite its pre-voicemail message, Cas swears and jabs too-forcefully at the red button that will end the call.

For a moment, the bass sound of the car’s engine and the rumble of it over the old pavement of the road becomes overwhelming. Cas is quiet, tense, and Dean knows they’re thinking the exact same thing. Dean wets his lips, desperate for any sort of relief from the weight of it all.

“Try again,” he suggests. “Maybe she’s just busy. Or maybe she’s asleep, it’s the middle of the night.”

Cas grunts, but does as he’s told and redials. The result is the same for the first few rings, prompting the man to make a sound of frustration. “Dean, if she—”

However that sentence was going to end, Dean has no idea, but it gets cut off by an ear-splitting crash and a forceful collision to the back of the cruiser that sends them both pitching forward against their seatbelts. Dean swears (Cas does the same in a language the deputy doesn’t have time to identify) and slams his foot against the accelerator even as he twists in his seat to look behind them.

The car that hit them is black enough to be nearly invisible in the night, with tinted windows and no headlights to give it away. The nondescript van is unremarkable—but then, Dean figures that that’s probably the point. The only positive is that while it’s a big van, his Suburban is bigger, and so won’t go down without a fight.

Dean tries to speed away from the van, but it catches up quickly. It swings into the left lane and rams at his back left tire; the rear door crunches, and Dean grinds his teeth together. He slows up just enough to let the van pull nearly even with him, then jerks the steering wheel to slam into it. The van careens and fishtails as the driver fights for control before he can go off the road, and makes a recovery just in time.

“God fucking damnit,” Cas growls. Dean can’t risk diverting any of his attention to even look at the man next to him, but he hears the click of a seatbelt unlatching, and more than one red flag pops up in response. Dean doesn’t know what the hell Cas is doing, but he tightens his grip on the wheel nonetheless, because no matter what it is he’s about to do, Dean refuses to let him go flying out through the windshield if they get hit.

While Cas does god-knows-what, the van collides with them again, making a valiant effort to drive them off the road. Even as Dean rams the vehicle right back, he kicks himself for letting it get the jump on him. The van is nearly impossible to keep track of in the dark—but that excuse isn’t going to get any of them anywhere if they can’t survive the night.

Dean gets a good shove in on the van, hitting its fender in a way that makes them both fishtail, and gives him and Cas a few seconds of breathing room. The van lags slightly behind them, and resumes its attacks on their rear wheels in its efforts to push them out of control. The Suburban protests when Dean tries to push it even faster, the poor engine not used to being pushed to such extremes. 

“I need to borrow this,” Cas says, but before Dean can even begin to switch gears and process what the hell the statement could possibly mean, Cas’s hands are on his thigh, fingers warm even though the thick material of his uniform—and then Dean’s gun is being slid out of its holster, and the cruiser’s sunroof is gliding open.

“Cas, wait—what the fuck!”

But Cas is already kneeling on the center console and stretching out of the sunroof, Dean’s gun held firmly in his hands. The road noise is even louder than it had been now that the window is open, and Cas’s shirt flaps obnoxiously as a result of the air whipping around his body. Dean searches his mirrors frantically for any sign of the van, but only manages to get an eye on it when it’s already coming back in for an attack. He rams into the cruiser at the same time that it swings for his back bumper, and though they still collide, it doesn’t toss either of them off of their path as terribly as it could.  On of Cas’ knees slides down off of the center console to wedge between it and Dean’s side for support, and Dean leans into him to help.

They’re still barreling down the road at full speed, and at this point are well beyond the city limits. The street lights are even fewer and farther between out this far, but beneath the glare of the next one they race under, while Dean is still grappling for control of his cruiser against the continual strain of the counterforce on his left, two things happen in quick succession.

First, Cas fires the gun, causing the passenger-side window of the van to shatter open. The van jerks in response, but just when the tires catch in the dirt beside the road and begin to pull, the driver corrects himself.

And second, as the window opens and the previously-hidden interior of the van is revealed, Dean sees the driver sliding a clip into his handgun, readying to shoot.

Dean doesn’t have much time to think, but luckily, he doesn’t need a lot. He knows exactly where they are, which means he knows exactly what he needs to do.

“Hold onto something!” he calls, and he hopes to god that Cas can hear him. The turn approaches quickly, and after a quick check in his side mirror to confirm that the van is still gaining on his left side, Dean slams on the break, twists the wheel, and then punches the gas again.

For a brief, terrifying moment, it feels like the cruiser might tip. Dean reaches for Cas, hooking his fingers in the top of his jeans in case he needs to suddenly yank the man to safety.

And then the car’s weight settles, and suddenly they’re barreling onward in a new direction.

Cas drops back into the car, and Dean quickly throws his hand back on the wheel.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, and Dean spares a moment to gape at him. He can’t be serious. “I almost had a clear shot! Why would you turn? Lucifer’s men are still going to follow us, you’ve only prolonged the inevitable!”

Dean has to force himself to bite back the scathing response that springs to the tip of his tongue, trying to remain level-headed. “That guy had a gun, too, dumbass.” Maybe not so level-headed, then. He blows out a rough breath, and glares over at his passenger. “I saw it through the window, he was just as ready to shoot you as you were to shoot him. Sorry for not just sitting by while that happened.”

Cas blinks. Dean sees him shift, his mind clearly working to process that sentiment, and then he huffs and reaches to grab the handle over his door to keep himself steady. The open sunroof continues to whip his hair up into a tangled mess, worsening what Dean can already tell is going to be a problem. Even as Jimmy Novak, Cas had had perpetual bedhead; maybe it’s from a life of doing crazy shit like this.

“Well for what it’s worth,” Cas grumbles, “thank you for not letting me be shot. _However_.” Here, he turns back around in his seat, scanning the quickly-receding horizon for any sign of their pursuer. Whether he sees anything or not, he doesn’t say, but his voice is calm when he continues, “Even if that turn was enough to throw him, it will not have done so more than temporarily. One of us will still need to be stopped, permanently. It’s incredibly unlikely that we’ll have enough of a lead to outrun him.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bucko.” Knowing it hasn’t been long enough for the van to correct its course and follow them down this new road, Dean finally takes the opportunity to hit the switch on his dashboard that turns all but the faintest of exterior running lights dark. Once they’re out, he can’t even see Cas beside him—though that doesn’t stop him from grinning. “I know these roads better than the back of my hand, Cas. I come out here riding with Baby every time I have a day off. If anyone can lose a tail out here, it’s me. Some wannabe thug from the city doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Baby?”

“My horse.”

He emphasizes his previous point by slowing down and then turning off of the road, trading pavement for packed dirt as he drives the cruiser down an unmarked path that there’s no chance anyone will follow them down. The cruiser may not be as maneuverable as Impala, but the hunk of dented metal is still capable of getting the job done.

The argument earns Dean a huff, but Cas doesn’t try to argue it any more, likely recognizing what Dean is doing and seeing the value in it. He returns to his normal position in his seat and pulls his seatbelt back into place, and though he still has Dean’s gun held at the ready, the modicum of normalcy helps Dean to feel steadier.

“You’re sure you can lose him?” Cas asks, and Dean slants a crooked grin at him in the darkened cab.

“He’s as good as gone.”

~ ** ~

Although he hadn’t held complete confidence in Dean’s self-proclaimed driving proficiency—he had not been able to see exactly who it was attacking them, but the man was no doubt highly trained, and far beyond Dean’s level—Castiel’s lack of faith was easily proven to be unfounded. When they cross the border back into town sometime later, they’re completely alone, with the van never having reappeared.

As they wind their way through Sweetwater Springs’ empty streets, Dean keeps his cruiser’s lights off, and makes a quick call to the sheriff. He doesn’t leave it on speaker to include Castiel this time, but from his clipped tones and numerous repeated _yessir_ s, Castiel gathers that it’s not much of a fun conversation, anyway. Still, he listens as much as he can, keeping his focus split between the deputy and their too-quiet surroundings.

When the call finally ends, Dean sighs heavily. “My house has most likely been compromised,” he says, “so we’re making a pit stop at Bobby’s, then getting the hell out of town. Any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Castiel rubs his thumb against the barrel of Dean’s gun. He doesn’t know why he’s still holding it, but by this point, he’s certainly not going to give it up. “You’re in danger because of me,” he says somberly, eyes lowered. “It would be best for you if I were to continue on alone.”

Surprisingly, the suggestion just makes Dean sigh again.

“Can’t.” Even with just that single word, Dean sounds tired beyond his years. Worn, defeated. “I wouldn’t let you do that anyway, but now, there’s no way Lucifer’s entire organization doesn’t know about my involvement. Like Bobby pointed out, I’m just as much of a target as you are at this point. We’re in this together, buddy, whether you like it or not.”

“We could still go separate directions,” Castiel tries to argue, though it sounds weak even as he says it. “You won’t be hunted as much as I will be, you could still—”

Dean raises a hand, and Castiel immediately falls silent.

“No. Just—no, okay?” They pass under a streetlight just as Dean gives him a sharp look, perfectly illuminating the expression. In that brief instant, Dean resembles an avenging angel, fed-up and ready to smite. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re going to Bobby’s, and we’re going to leave this dented hunk of junk there and take his truck. It’s unmarked, no one will know it’s us. Clear?” Castiel nods, prompting Dean to do the same. “Good. Then we’re going to drive to Chicago, where we’ll meet up with my brother. He’ll help us with this mess.”

Castiel startles, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Your brother? Dean—”

“Ah ah—” The deputy holds up his hand again. “Not negotiable. Sammy’s one of the best damn lawyers in the country, and he’s clever as a whip. Far as I can see, the only way to stop Lucifer is to catch him, and if we want to do that, then we need to find him. We need more than just the two of us for that.”

“Every government agency in the nation is looking for Lucifer, adding one lawyer to the mix isn’t going to make a difference.”

Dean glares, but instead of changing his position on the matter, he asks abruptly, “Where’s Anna?”

And just like that, Castiel is willing to let the ‘brother’ conversation drop. His sister is far more important to him, as Dean knows. Damn him.

Castiel turns his head to stare out the window, his jaw clenched tightly. “South Dakota. Sioux Falls. Or she _should_ be, though I’m increasingly unconvinced that Lucifer has not already found her.”

From the periphery of his vision, he sees Dean turn toward him in surprise. “Sioux Falls? You’re joking.”

“This is hardly the time to be joking about anything, Dean,” Castiel bites back with a scowl.

Dean, though, ignores him. He quickly fumbles for his phone, scrolls through his list of contacts, and selects one, placing a call long before Castiel can make sense of the situation. He sets it to speaker phone and holds the device aloft between them. It rings a few times, but just when Castiel is starting to become convinced that it’s going to ring out, the call connects, and an exasperated female voice answers.

“Dean Winchester, do you have any idea what time—”

“Jody, it’s an emergency.”

On the other end of the line, there’s the distinct sound of rustling sheets, and then the click of a lamp being turned on. When the woman speaks again, her voice is all business. “What happened? Is Bobby okay?”

Castiel’s eyebrows rise, but Dean just chuckles. “The old fart’s fine, don’t worry. This is a different kind of emergency. I need you to go out and play sheriff, the problem is in your neck of the woods.”

“What kind of problem?” There’s more rustling and a barely-noticeable shift in Jody’s voice, giving Castiel the distinct impression that she put Dean on speaker while she starts getting dressed. “And boy, how in the hell did you find out about something in Sioux Falls before _I_ did?”

“Call it intuition,” Dean says. He flashes a quick grin at Castiel. Castiel who, for his part, can hardly breathe.

Dean knows the sheriff of Sioux Falls. Of all the sheriffs in all the cities, _Sioux Falls_. What are the odds? If this one happenstance ends up being enough to save Anna…

“There’s a woman in your city, would’ve moved there somewhat recently. Named Anna Milton.” Dean’s voice changes as he gets down to business, hardening and losing the last of its playful edge. “I have reason to believe that she’s in danger, and if at all possible, she needs to be brought into the station and kept under guard. Need-to-know basis. Please, Jodes, I’ll owe you so huge for this, you have no idea.”

The line crackles as Jody sighs. “Cut it, Winchester. If someone in my town needs me, I’m going to be there with no owing or sweet-talking necessary, and you know it. Anna Milton?”

Dean cuts a look toward Castiel, who tips his chin in a nod. “Anna Milton,” Dean confirms. Then, “We’re a bit pressed for time over here, so I’ll explain more later, but she’s under witness protection. Can you check on her and call me back? Bobby knows part of the situation; you can talk to him afterwards.”

“Witness protection? What the hell are you getting yourself into down there, kid?”

Dean laughs; Castiel does not. “Check on Anna, call me, and then call Bobby. He’ll brief you, Jody, I promise.”

Before she replies, Castiel hears Jody close her car door, and then start up the engine. Relief washes through him with the knowledge that she’s taking action as requested, so much so that he hardly hears her parting words.

“Alright, if you say so. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something. Until then, stay safe, alright?”

“Always, Jody. You be safe too. Talk to you later.”

When the call ends, there’s a brief lull of silence. Castiel swallows thickly. He doesn’t quite know what to say, or how to express himself—but neither of those factors is going to stop him from trying.

“Dean… I can’t thank you enough for this. Even aside from the fact that you somehow know the Sioux Falls sheriff, I wouldn’t have even thought to…”

He wouldn’t have thought to send someone closer to check on Anna. He certainly wouldn’t have called the authorities, anywhere—he’s a wanted man, thanks to Lucifer, and wouldn’t have trusted any phone line, let alone anyone who may have been on the other end. Having someone with connections, however, changes everything.

Dean flashes Castiel a smile as he turns the car off of the main road, starting down a gravel road toward a large ranch house. “Good thing you have me, huh? I’ve got all sorts of tricks up my sleeve.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticks up in a smile. “I don’t have any doubt about that.”

The drive down Bobby’s driveway feels like it takes forever, but when they pass beneath the wood-carved sign labeled _Singer-Harvelle_ , a degree of calm seeps over Castiel. He may not know the Sweetwater Springs sheriff, but being on his property feels a bit like a safe haven. Swapping cars seems to be an easy enough process, once they park in front of the house, and quiet as well, which Castiel is grateful for. He already has enough stress in his life; if his brother’s minions were to find them again so soon, he might actually snap.

Dean lets himself into Bobby’s house to get his keys while Castiel salvages what he can from the police car. The vehicle is nearly destroyed; Castiel is amazed that it managed to drive them as far as it did, really. The entire frame is dented, the plastic caved in at every major point the van hit below approximately chest level, and the rear window is cracked. The wheels are mostly alright, but once he fully takes stock of them, Castiel can see that the back left one is slightly off-kilter.

He and Dean really pushed their luck, it seems.

He has to wrestle with the latch on the back hatch to get it open, but leveraging his strength eventually does the trick, even despite the extensive damage. There’s not much in back there, but he takes it all anyway—a first aid kit, a box of bullets for the gun Dean carries (which is now back in the safety of the holster on his thigh, much to Castiel’s chagrin), a baton, and a pair of handcuffs. He hides the handcuffs in the back pocket of his jeans, and is in the process of carrying the rest of his loot to the truck when Dean emerges from the house.

“Got us some new clothes,” the deputy announces, gesturing to a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. When Castiel raises an eyebrow in question, Dean explains, “My stuff, not Bobby’s. I keep a couple outfits in his spare bedroom for nights I hang out with him and Ellen and Jo, and don’t feel like going all the way home.”

Castiel only has more questions after that—he knows nothing about Bobby and his family or what kind of relationship Dean apparently has with any of them—but now isn’t the time to ask. He nods at the items in his own arms. “I got these out of the back. I expect at least some of it will be useful. Are we ready to leave?”

Dean meets him at the truck, jingling the keys. “Ready when you are, hotshot. We’re going to have to get a few hours of driving under our belt before we stop. You good?”

“I’m fine.” Castiel knocks his elbow against the side of the truck, and although he frowns, Dean unlocks it. Castiel opens the door and deposits his collection in the footwell of the passenger side.

Dean circles around to the opposite side and climbs in, the duffle going on the seat between them as they both settle into place.

Castiel can feel Dean’s gaze boring into him as he clips into his seatbelt, but he doesn’t want any kind of discussion or confrontation right now. With his mind churning, thoughts of Anna running through unbidden, escalating in their concern, he can’t talk to Dean right now. He keeps his eyes fixed steadily on the darkness outside the window, and after a few more moments, Dean’s gaze shifts away. The truck rumbles to life beneath them, the aging motor sounding louder than the one in the Suburban had, and Castiel squeezes his eyes shut. He prays to whatever entity might be listening that Anna is waiting for him on the other side of this journey.

If not, he doesn’t even want to know what he’ll do.

~ ** ~


	2. Chapter 2

Jody calls them back just as the sun is coming over the horizon. Cas jolts when Dean’s phone starts to ring, his eyes going wide as he turns to stare at Dean, silently begging the deputy to answer the call as if he would even think of doing anything else.

Dean puts the call on speaker just as he did last time. “Jody, give me some good news.”

The other end of the line is quiet for a beat too long. Dean’s stomach sinks; Cas’s knuckles are white with how tightly he’s gripping his own thighs.

Eventually, Jody sighs.

“Dean, I’m sorry. Anna Milton’s house shows signs of a break-in, and there’s evidence of a struggle inside. From what my guys have been able to determine, she was taken at least two days ago.”

Beside him, Dean hears Cas’s breath hitch. Dean can’t bear to look at him, not yet, but the sound alone is enough to make his throat swell shut and his eyes prick with the threat of tears. He feels Cas’s pain acutely.

“Okay,” he says, though he has to stop and clear his throat when it comes out sounding choked. “Thanks, Jody. Any chance you found any sign of where she may have been taken?”

He can practically hear the woman shake her head. “No signs of who took her or where they went. We found a letter that we believe may have been intended for a significant other or a family member, hidden in her bedroom, but—”

“Who?” Cas cuts in, suddenly animated despite his red-ringed eyes. “What letter, read it to me.”

“Hold on, now, who the hell—”

Dean quickly cuts in, “Anna’s brother. Bobby can explain that, too. The note, Jody. Please?”

“Alright, fine,” Jody relents with another sigh. “I’m trusting you on this one, Dean, this letter is considered evidence.” There’s a beat in which both Dean and Cas wait with bated breath, listening to the rustling they can hear from Jody’s end. It isn’t long before she starts to read.

“ _C, I think I’m being followed, but I’m not sure if it’s L or the dogs. If L found me, watch yourself. You know he wants you more, and if he finds you, you’re in deeper shit than I am. If I go missing, and if he doesn’t find you, too, don’t come after me. I’m not worth blowing your cover. Stay hidden, stay safe, and don’t throw all of this away for nothing. This is my own fault, anyway. I poked around too much, asked too many questions. I know where he’s been hiding._ ” Jody pauses here in her reading, as if knowing that both men listening to her will want to know what follows that declaration. “It doesn’t say where,” Jody says, “and the letter ends after that. She wrote at the bottom, _I miss Mom,_ and _I love you_. That’s it, boys.”

Dean glances over at Cas. The man looks simultaneously devastated, infuriated, and confused—though as far as the final sentences are concerned, confusion definitely wins out. When he catches Dean staring, Cas’s lips press thin. He shakes his head slightly, eyes cutting toward the phone. Dean tips his head in understanding.

“Okay, thank you, Jody. We’re going dark, but if anything major happens, I’ll try to let you know.” Dean raises one of his knees up to keep a hold on the truck’s steering wheel so that he can rub his hand across his face. He’s been up for over twenty-four hours, and yet the exhaustion he can feel in his bones has nothing to do with that. “Can you call Bobby and update him for me? I’m sure he’ll figure out… something, to do with that.”

“Sure thing,” Jody replies, sounding just as weary as Dean feels. “To the fella riding shotgun—I’m sorry about your sister. We’re going to be doing everything we can to hunt her down, I swear it.”

A soft, strangled sound works its way out of Castiel’s throat before he manages to say, “Thank you, sheriff.”

“Of course. Be safe, boys.” Jody hangs up, and Dean drops his phone onto the duffle bag. Now that the conversation has ended, the silence in the cab of the truck is deafening, Dean hazards a look at Cas, tensing in anticipation. The man is rigid in his seat and looks ready to snap, though whether that snap would be toward a rampage or a breakdown, Dean has no idea.

“Cas—”

“Don’t,” Cas snaps, and Dean flinches back at the force of it. Cas’s hands tremble where they’re clenched into fists in his lap, and his jaw is clenched so tightly Dean is surprised that his teeth aren’t shattering. He’s very pointedly avoiding looking at Dean, too, dissuading the deputy from trying to say anything more.

So Dean doesn’t. The last thing he wants to do is trigger the water works, after all.

Neither of them says anything for a while after that.

~ ** ~

They make it to Memphis before they have to stop. As much as Castiel would like to go farther, he can’t deny Dean’s logic in needing to find a motel room. They’ve both been up for more than twenty-four hours, so even though it’s only nearing noon, neither of them are ready to go farther without first taking a chance to rest. Dean was twitching for the last hour of their drive, and Castiel, for his part, simply doesn’t feel up to taking over.

Castiel has to go in to book them a room, since Dean is still in uniform and would gain more attention than is necessary. Castiel, at least, only has to pull on a coat of Bobby’s that was under the front seat to hide the blood still staining his shirt from the motel attendant. He pays with cash—another forethought of Dean’s, who grabbed a stack of bills from somewhere in Bobby’s house—gives a fake name, and leaves the office without any extraneous questions. Their assigned room is midway down the main row of rooms, and completely inconspicuous. Castiel heads directly there and lets himself in, trusting Dean to get what they need from the truck and follow.

Predictably, Dean does just that. In the handful of hours that have passed since Jody called, Dean has been aware of his onset of broodiness, and respectful of his limits, as well. He hasn’t pushed or pried, and though that made for a long car ride with a lot of too-loud rock music as filler noise, Castiel is grateful.

In the room, Castiel is already sitting at the foot of one of the two queen beds with his head in his hands by the time Dean drops the duffle bag and comes to stand in front of him. There’s an ache behind his temples and a weight on his chest, and despite the fact that he wants to shower his tension away, or maybe sleep it off, but he doesn’t have the energy to do either. He doesn’t have the energy to move.

Despite what Anna wrote, losing her to Lucifer was his fault. The entire mess is his fault. If he hadn’t sparked a fight with Lucifer, if he had just kept his mouth shut—

The bed beside him dips as Dean’s weight settles onto it, close at his side. Too close, maybe, but Castiel doesn’t have the strength to push him away, physically or otherwise.

Dean clicks back the latches on the first aid kit, then wordlessly reaches over to push Bobby’s coat from Castiel’s shoulders and then start unbuttoning his shirt. Castiel closes his eyes against the feeling of fingers brushing against his chest, but he’s completely pliant as the garments are removed. Once it’s gone, Dean starts wiping at the long-since-dried blood on his bicep with a damp towel and an alcohol wipe in turn, and then wraps it with gauze. It all passes in a blur for Castiel, who doesn’t open his eyes until Dean prompts him to do so, a warm hand coming up to cup his jaw.

“Cas, hey. Look at me.”

It takes a moment for Castiel to will his eyelids to cooperate, but when he eventually manages to meet Dean’s gaze, he finds the deputy’s eyes are wide, soft, and oh-so-green. Castiel is captured by them instantly, his chest tightening.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Dean swipes his thumb across his cheek, clearing away a tear which managed to escape his eye. Castiel’s next breath hitches on a sob, but before it can turn into anything more than that, Dean is sliding an arm around his shoulders and pulling him against his chest. Castiel buries his tears in the collar of Dean’s uniform, quickly saturating the material. If Dean minds, he keeps his complaints to himself.

It’s impossible to determine how long they sit there just like that, which means that when they shift, that too is blurred in Castiel’s mind. All he knows is, one moment he is crying into Dean’s neck, then Dean is tucking his fingers under his chin, and in the next moment, they’re kissing.

Dean’s lips are warm and soft against his own, which he knows in turn are chapped and wet with tears. It makes Castiel self-conscious, knowing how much of a mess he is, but when he tries to withdraw, Dean slides a hand in his hair to hold him in place. The wordless insistence doesn’t entirely ease Castiel’s anxiety, but it certainly makes it easy to ignore.

Castiel’s hand finds its way to the front of Dean’s shirt, gripping tight at the fabric. The pointed edges of the deputy’s badge dig into his knuckles. Without opening his eyes—which evidently slipped shut at some point—he grabs the badge instead. He tears it free with uncoordinated fingers and tosses it away.

He remembers what Dean had said while he was in that cell. And this isn’t about the badge.

Dean gasps when his badge is thrown across the room, jerking back for the first time since they began kissing. Castiel blinks at him, confused as to what caused the sudden change. Dean stares at him with wide, awe-struck eyes. When Castiel wets his lips, he can taste the other man there.

“Dean?”

Hearing his name brings Dean back to reality, and he shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts. He pulls Castiel close again, their noses brushing. “You’re so perfect,” he whispers, and just like that, they’re kissing again.

Over the course of the next few moments, Dean’s uniform shirt disappears, and then his plain white undershirt after that. Being chest-to-chest with Dean is just as wonderful as Castiel remembers it being three months ago; Dean’s freckled skin seems to practically generate heat, and though he’s not perfectly chiseled—he’s soft around his middle, which Castiel adores—he still has a body worth crying over.

It’s a good thing he’s already crying.

“Shh, Cas, it’s okay,” Dean coos. He slots himself in between Castiel’s legs, pressing Cas back into the soft mattress, and blankets him with his weight while he rolls his hips. Castiel practically whimpers at the friction, prompting Dean to hush him again. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you. Let me take care of you.”

And lord help him, but that’s exactly what Castiel wants right now. Learning Anna’s fate left him feeling like he’s been flayed, sliced open for all of his fears and insecurities to be seen—right now, he needs Dean. He needs _this_. And he loves Dean for realizing that.

Even if he’s sure he’ll hate himself for it later.

He pulls Dean back in by his hair and seals their lips together once more. Dean takes the hint, and returns to rolling his hips. His erection is muted by the thick fabric of his uniform’s pants, but Castiel can still feel it well enough, rubbing alongside his own. He reaches for Dean’s belt with fumbling fingers, and when he fails to get it open, Dean takes over with hands far steadier.

Dean’s pants join the rest of his clothes in a pile off the side of the bed, and Castiel’s follow soon after. Once they’re both bare, Dean wraps strong fingers around both of their lengths, cutting off Cas’s thought processes before he can start to overthink anything. His head falls back with a moan, which Dean then immediately swallows up.

They continue on like that for a few moments, but despite the gentle perfection of Dean’s touches, doing things like _this_ isn’t quite filling the void in his chest. He wants to feel Dean, really feel him; he digs his fingertips into Dean’s shoulder and says just that.

Dean groans at the request, but nods hurriedly as he drops his head to mouth at Castiel’s jawline and neck. The feeling of warm lips and gentle teeth makes Castiel whine, but just when he’s truly enjoying it, Dean withdraws, leaving him cold and alone.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean chuckles at the whine in his voice, though not unkindly. “Give me two seconds, sweetheart,” he drawls, accent thickening in a way that makes Castiel shiver. Dean digs through the duffle bag for a moment, and when he finds what he’s looking for, he returns to the bed, climbing back over Castiel as if he never left.

When Castiel catches sight of the bottle in his hand, he laughs wetly. “Did you—”

“It was already in the bag, I swear.”

Castiel isn’t sure he believes that, but he’s happy enough to have the lube that he doesn’t actually care. He wraps his legs around Dean’s waist and tilts his hips up, then hides his face in Dean’s neck and whispers a fervent, “ _Please_.”

Dean kisses him once more, steadying him, then clicks open the bottle of lube and drizzles some over his fingers. Castiel’s body is wound tight in anticipation, but once one of Dean’s slicked fingers rubs at his entrance, he melts completely. Dean slides a finger into him to the knuckle, stroking his inner walls and stretching him open without any sense of urgency. It seems like an eternity passes before one finger becomes two, and even longer before two becomes three. By that time, Castiel is a writhing, needy mess, desperate for everything and anything Dean is willing to give him. With nothing more than his fingers and soft kisses, Dean has managed to take him apart completely, tear him down to the studs. He trusts Dean implicitly to be able to put him back together.

With the hand not half-buried inside Castiel, Dean goes for the bottle of lube once more, and uses another helping of it to coat his cock. Castiel whines when Dean’s fingers are pulled free, leaving him feeling empty in the worst way imaginable, but he doesn’t have to wait long for that unpleasantness to be resolved.

The head of Dean’s cock is a blunt, solid pressure as it presses into him, and Castiel keens as it stretches him wide. He was loose and open from Dean’s fingers, but that preparation has nothing on the feeling of Dean’s cock. Even though he’s had Dean in him before, he feels ill-prepared for this. Dean is thick and long and utterly perfect.

After Dean bottoms out, he holds himself completely still to give Castiel the time he needs to adjust to him. He nuzzles into Castiel’s neck while he waits, murmuring nonsense and praise and reassurances. The feeling of being filled and treated so tenderly was already threatening to overwhelm Castiel, and the promises of care and affection push him over that edge with ease. Castiel’s next breath gets caught in his throat, hitching on the beginning of a sob, and he clings to Dean to divert the focus. He clenches around Dean’s cock and rolls his hips up once to signal that he’s ready.

Taking the hint, Dean pulls his hips back and then thrusts them right back into place. A soft gasp punches out of Castiel’s chest, and again for the next thrust, and again for the one after that. Dean keeps his pace slow, but what he lacks in speed he more than makes up for with force. His cock drags perfectly on every thrust, and he has to wrap a hand around Castiel’s shoulders to keep him from being driven up the bed from the strength of them. It manages to be both rough and gentle at the same time, and it’s exactly what Castiel needs.

As their bodies rock together, the emotional barriers in Castiel’s mind begin to crumble and fall. They were already broken at their foundations, but now his pleasure begins to blur and mix with his heartbreak, his failure, his internalized anger. He doesn’t know when he started to cry again, but his vision swims, and tears stream down his face. Dean kisses them away with ease. He doesn’t say a word about it, though, for which Castiel is grateful. He’s already so overcome by the sensation of Dean over him, in him, worshipping him, that he can’t carry the thought any further than that.

Castiel’s perception of time long since abandoned him, so he has no way of knowing how much time passes before Dean’s steady rhythm eventually begins to falter. It’s subtle at first, a barely-there shift in the way Dean moves his hips, but before long, the man begins to shake with exertion. He doesn’t pull out quite as far before pressing back in, sweat beads at his hairline, and his breath is hot against Castiel’s cheek.

Seeing how affected Dean is makes Castiel tremble as well, and he tightens around Dean’s length once again. Dean groans at the feeling, and he nips at Castiel’s jaw for his effort.

“Come on, baby,” Dean says, and the rough sound of his voice is enough to pull a soft moan out of Castiel. Dean shifts his weight down to one elbow and uses his newly freed hand to stroke Castiel’s cock. He rubs his thumb in a tight circle against the underside of the tip, then sweeps it over the head to smear the precome gathered there. He only strokes Castiel a handful of times before it becomes too much for him to take, and Castiel comes with a soft, broken cry.

Dean only lasts for a few more thrusts after that. He works Castiel through his climax, come covering his hand, and then spills into Castiel without warning. Dean doesn’t make a sound as he comes, but his eyes are half-closed and his lips are parted in bliss, and the beauty of it more than makes up for the lack of other stimuli for Castiel to memorize. As it is, he knows he’s going to remember the way Dean’s pleasure lit up his features for a long time to come.

And in that instant, Castiel is struck by complete and total clarity. One fact stands out above all others, eclipsing even his lingering emotional turmoil and muting his afterglow.

This is the last time he can have this with Dean.

Sleeping with Dean three months ago was a mistake. He endangered Dean’s life, as has become incredibly apparent in the last sixteen hours, let them both form an attachment. He knew right when they began this that it was going to be a mistake, but his regret has settled in faster than expected. Or, perhaps not regret—he doesn’t regret indulging one more time if it means he has something to keep with him after it’s all over.

He can’t have this again, so the memory will have to suffice.

Dean pulls out of him, and Castiel grimaces at the wetness left behind. Dean quickly kisses the expression away, however, and rolls halfway away to grab them a towel. It’s the same one he previously used to clean blood from Castiel’s skin, and though Castiel wrinkles his nose, he doesn’t object. He just wants to be clean so that he can sleep. Once they’re both clear of come and lube, Dean tosses the towel away and rolls back over to plaster himself to Castiel’s side. His breath is hot against Cas’s already-overheated skin, but it’s not altogether uncomfortable. Dean shifts and pinches his hip.

“So correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, tiredly and without any sort of segue, “but if you’re a Krushnic, that means you’re Russian, right?” Dean’s fingers dig into Castiel’s skin, pressing in just below his ribs. “Do you speak Russian?”

Whether it’s the way the sated exhaustion in Dean’s voice strengthens his accent or the randomness of the question he posed that amuses Castiel the most, he has no idea, but he snorts regardless. His amusement is thin, but it’s there nonetheless. He takes Dean’s hand in his own and laces their fingers together to stop any further pinching. “Спать, моя любовь.”

_Go to sleep, my love._

He feels Dean shiver in his arms, and earns a contented hum for his efforts. Even without understanding him, Dean obeys the gentle order, and drifts off in no time at all. Castiel listens to the slowing cadence of his breathing, tries to memorize the feeling of the sleep-heavy limbs that curl around and clutch at him, commits the intoxicating scent of Dean’s skin to heart.

It takes a long time for sleep to claim him.

~ ** ~

When he wakes, he does something rash.

Castiel is awake before Dean is, making the morning eerily similar to the one they spent together before. The sun is only barely peeking in through the motel window, and as they slept, Dean migrated away from him to sprawl haphazardly across his half of the bed. It’s adorable, quite frankly, but the distance also means that it’s easy for Castiel to slip away.

He dresses silently, taking a clean pair of underwear from the bag Dean brought as well as a clean t-shirt, and pulling them on along with his own pair of jeans. From his back pocket, he withdraws the pair of handcuffs he had hidden there when they stopped at Bobby’s. He presses his thumb against the cold metal of the latch, then glances at Dean. A small tendril of guilt tugs at his stomach, but he makes his decision without hesitation.

He approaches the bed on silent feet, swoops Dean’s hands up with his own, and swiftly locks the handcuffs around his wrists, with the chain securely around a piece of the headboard.

Dean blinks awake while it happens, lazy at first as he gains awareness, then startled as soon as he catches on.

“Cas, what—” He tries to sit up, but his wrists catch on the handcuffs and keep him from getting very far. His eyes go wide with surprise, then disbelief washes through, then betrayal. And that last one—that one’s the worst of all. Castiel turns around, unable to meet Dean’s eyes for fear of losing his hold on his unbothered façade.

He stoops to take Dean’s gun from its discarded holster, ignoring the sound of the handcuffs yanking against the headboard. He tunes it out, just as he tunes out Dean’s shouting.

“Cas, what the fuck are you doing? Let me out! Don’t you dare leave me here alone, you son of a bitch!”

Castiel squares his shoulders, keeping his eyes fixed on the revolver now in his hand as he checks to make sure it’s still loaded. “I’m sorry, Dean. I already care about you too much to let you get hurt in this endeavor. I will stop my brother, but I will do so alone.”

The proclamation only makes Dean fight against his restraints even more, the sound of the handcuffs clanking against the wood headboard reverberating loudly in the small space of the room. “Castiel, you bastard! Don’t do this! You can’t do this alone, you know you can’t—”

Steeling himself, Castiel finally looks over at Dean with a cold, level stare. In that moment, he knows he looks every inch the Krushnic he was always meant to be. Though, if he were truly a Krushnic to his core, his stomach wouldn’t twist when he says, “I am perfectly capable of handling myself without a small-town cowboy on my side. I don’t need you.”

Dean flinches as though he was slapped. A deafening silence fills the room, and Castiel has to turn away again. He decides to take Dean’s holster as well as his gun, and quickly straps it on. After that, he picks up the key to Bobby’s truck, and goes for the door. Dean, still, has said nothing more. The silence weighs on Castiel, and prompts him to stop just before he leaves, with his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry.” The words scrape out as hardly more than a whisper, but considering the lack of sound in the room, it’s still easily heard. There’s a lump in his throat when he swallows. “I’ve already lost Anna. I won’t lose you, too.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “Cas—”

Castiel is out the door before he can hear anything else.

The weight in his heart doesn’t let up as he crosses the parking lot to the truck, nor when he lets himself into the front seat and starts the engine. In fact, the weight only grows heavier, morphing into an ache before he knows it. It threatens to swallow him up, consume him, and he has to sit with his forehead against the steering wheel for longer than he cares to track while he battles for control of his breathing. It’s been a while since he last had a panic attack, but now he feels dangerously close to just that.

After all Dean has done for him…

But he needs to leave, that much is certain. He meant what he said to the man; with Anna’s fate already in the air, Castiel won’t put anyone else at risk. Once he’s found Lucifer and dealt with him, assuming he survives the encounter, he can return to Sweetwater Springs. He’ll drop to his knees in front of Dean and beg for forgiveness if that’s what it takes, but until then, this is the way it needs to be.

He’s been sitting in the parking lot for too long, he knows, but he doesn’t know where to go. Dean at least had something of a direction for them to go in, but Castiel has nothing. If he’s going to find Lucifer as Anna claims to have done, then he’s going to have to start searching, and he’s going to have to be smart about it. He can’t repeat Anna’s mistakes. He wonders if he has any friends left in what is left of the Krushnic organization. Anna might have had a contact—but was that who sold her out?”

It takes a while, but eventually, Castiel decides he needs to make some sort of decision. Somewhere to go or not, he has to leave. He sits up, ready to do just that.

Only to be stopped by the sound of a fist banging against his window. He yelps in surprise, twisting in his seat and fumbling his hand toward the gun.

On the other side of the window, Dean looks extremely unimpressed. He makes a sharp gesture for Castiel to unlock the door, which the man then does, his shoulders hunching in shame. He should probably be furious, both with himself for delaying in the parking lot and with Dean for escaping the handcuffs so quickly, but he can’t find it in himself to feel anything for either.

Dean yanks the door open and steps up to the side of the truck, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You know,” he says, voice nearly a growl, “I may be kinky, but I like to know what I’m getting into in advance. You know—consent and all that. But furthermore, handcuffing someone to a bed doesn’t really work out when you leave their keys right next to them.”

Castiel winces. Dean’s keys had been in his pocket, and his jeans had been right beside the bed. He knows better than that, damnit, and if he’d been on his A-game when he left Dean, he would have taken Dean’s personal keys, too. _Stupid_.

From the look on Dean’s face, he can probably tell exactly what Castiel is thinking. He doesn’t look impressed. He jerks his chin up and orders, “Scoot over.”

Castiel does so without complaint, shuffling across the bench seat into his designated place as passenger. Dean climbs in after him and shuts the door, then immediately throws the truck into gear and backs out of the parking stall. They’re back on the road within moments, and getting onto the freeway shortly after that.

It takes Castiel longer than it should to muster up the courage to speak. “We don’t have the duffle.”

Dean grunts in response. “It’s in the back.”

“Oh.”

Another few minutes slowly tick by. Castiel shifts uncomfortably, and eventually, it seems to become too much for Dean to handle, because the deputy lets out an explosive sigh.

“Do you know where Lucifer is?”

Castiel blinks, turning toward Dean with blatant confusion. “No. Why would I?”

Dean makes a face. “Anna’s letter was for you, and it didn’t make any sense, but after hearing it, you tried to take off on your own. That says to me that you know something.”

The logic is easily visible, and it makes Castiel’s stomach turn. He hadn’t thought of it from that perspective, but if that’s how Dean saw it—that’s an entirely different kind of betrayal. Was Dean questioning his usefulness again? Did he think that Castiel slept with him for personal gain, or to distract him? Does he not understand how important he has already become to Castiel?

From the tightness in Dean’s jaw, he would wager that the answer to the last question is _no_.

Castiel’s shoulders hunch even further.

“I don’t know where he is,” he says. He keeps his voice as level as possible, pouring his sincerity into the words. He needs Dean to believe him; if they’re sticking together, then he needs to regain Dean’s trust. “You heard the same letter I did, Dean. Anna figured it out, but all that says to me is that the answer is out there _somewhere_. Somewhere, he failed to cover his tracks. There’s something he left uncovered. I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to do research yet, so I can’t have it figured out yet.”

Dean drums his fingertips against the steering wheel, broadcasting his continued agitation. It takes him a few moments to speak again. “Who’re ‘the dogs’?”

Despite his stress, Castiel’s lips tick up in the shadow of a smile at that. “The police,” he explains. “It’s an unimaginative code word, our family certainly has better ones, but Anna was trying to get a message to me, not be a mobster. She coded it because it would have been much more suspicious to Jody or anyone else who may have found that letter if she left in the fact that she thought some branch of law enforcement was following her.”

“Oh.” Dean purses his lips, clearly thinking that over. “Yeah, you’re not wrong. It already sounded shady as fuck, but that certainly wouldn’t’ve helped.”

“It wouldn’t have.” Though, even if that letter had used his and Lucifer’s names, addressed their witness protection, named a police organization which may have been tailing her—none of it would have made a difference under the circumstances in which the letter was found and read. No amount of coded language would have changed anything.

The late afternoon sun is bright in their eyes as they fly down the highway. Castiel flips down his visor to cover his eyes, but Dean just continues to glare out the windshield. His jaw works silently around several aborted sentences, but seeing as none ever manage to be voiced, the ride is silent for some time. Castiel isn’t eager to initiate more conversation, anyway.

It’s only when they cross the border out of Tennessee about an hour later that Dean finally switches on the radio, the volume turned high to indicate that no conversations are forthcoming. It only adds to the awkwardness in the truck, but Castiel doesn’t have the words to object.

~ ** ~

Sam is waiting for them when they reach his house.

Despite the fact that was nearly midnight when they reached Chicago, Dean broke his unwavering concentration on the road for the first time in hours in order to pick up his phone and send a text to his brother. He figured if he and Cas were going to crash there, Sam may as well at least have some warning. Ten minutes is better than none.

He hadn’t checked any of the ten replies Sam had sent him, but really, Dean shouldn’t be surprised by the bitch-face his brother is sporting. And he’s not, for the most part—but Cas is. Even without looking at him directly, Dean can see the way he hesitates at the sight of the man on the porch, his hand slow to reach for the door handle.

Not that Dean cares about his opinion. Backstabbing son of a bitch.

He closes his door a bit too hard when he gets out of the truck, earning a raised eyebrow from Sam.

“Guess you’re not here for a friendly visit, then?” Sam asks dryly.

Dean scowls at him, but doesn’t answer with anything more than a grunt as he approaches the front porch. He growls over his shoulder at Cas, “Get the bag.” He doesn’t wait around to see if Cas obeys, but from the glimpse he catches of the man’s flinch, he doesn’t need to.

Sam’s eyebrows have managed to climb even higher, nearly disappearing behind his shaggy hair. He looks like he’s ready to say more, but Dean intentionally brushes past him before whatever he sees brewing can make it off of Sam’s tongue and pushes his way into the house.

As he drops onto the edge of the ottoman in the living room to pull off his boots, he hears Cas reach the porch and exchange a few silted sentences with Sam.

“Um, hi. Dean said he had someone with him, but I don’t think he said…”

“Castiel. And you’re Sam, correct?”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you, Castiel. You’re… friends with my brother?”

“It’s complicated.”

Dean can’t contain his scoff. He suspects it might be overheard, judging by the sudden silence outside the front door, but he can’t bring himself to care. He hears Sam clear his throat.

“Well, uh. It’s late, I’m sure you guys can fill me in in the morning. The guest room is ready to go, and I can grab some blankets for the couch, too, if one of you wants.”

The two of them step into the house at that point, Sam closing the door behind them. Dean jumps in to answer before Cas can.

“We’ll take the guest room, Sammy.” Cas jolts and whips around to face Dean in surprise, but Dean stops him in place with a glare. He glances at his brother. “Where’s Sarah, is she home?”

Sam shakes his head. “She’s out of town for an art show. She’s in LA through the end of the week.”

Dean nods and stands. “Good. You need to take off work tomorrow, too, by the way. We’ve got work to do.”

For a moment, it looks as though Sam is going to object, but Dean sees him rein himself in at the last second. He probably realizes just how serious Dean is about this; he’s well past the point of fucking around, and it’s not just his exhaustion which has pushed him to this point.

Eventually, Sam relents with a nod. “I’ll… call the office in the morning. I have some sick days saved up, I guess.”

Dean’s shoulders slump with relief. Having Sam on his side always has that effect. “Thanks, Sammy. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam pulls him into a quick hug, and claps him on the back. “Go get some sleep, man. You have a lot of talking to do in the morning.”

“God, don’t remind me,” Dean grumbles, only partially joking. He steps around his brother and takes the duffle from Cas, then prods the man’s shoulder to get him moving up the stairs. “Night, Sam.”

“Goodnight, guys. Nice to meet you, Castiel!”

Cas mumbles the sentiment in return, but doesn’t fight Dean’s continued pushing in order to linger on the stairs. Dean guides him all the way to the guest room, down the hall and to the right, and closes them in before finally letting go of him.

Once they’re alone, Cas’s uncertainty grows. His hands twist together as he turns to face Dean, and he pointedly takes a step away from him.

“Should I… sleep on the floor?” he asks. “I mean, I—Dean, I don’t think it’s a good idea if we…”

Dean scoffs at him. “We’re sleeping, not fucking. I’m still mad at you. Now shut up and get in the bed before I decide to make you sleep in the tub, jackass.”

Cas’s eyes widen at that, but he complies without further argument. Dean turns away as they both strip down to their underwear, and doesn’t turn back until he hears Cas slide into the bed, the creak of the bed frame giving him away. There’s tension in every line of Cas’s body while he sits against the headboard and waits for Dean to join him, watching the deputy’s every move with sharp, blue eyes.

Instead of joining him right away, though, Dean reaches into the duffle bag to retrieve something which he very carefully keeps from Cas’s view. He can tell Cas is curious, craning his neck to try to get a look as Dean finally climbs into his side of the bed, but Dean doesn’t care what he thinks. He stares Cas down and says, tone leaving no room for argument, “Give me your wrist.”

Dean is man enough to admit that watching Cas’s forehead wrinkle in confusion is the funniest thing he’s seen in a while. His amusement even outweighs his irritation for a few moments, and when Cas holds out his left hand, Dean grips it with gentle fingers. He enjoys watching the way Cas’s eyes darken just slightly at the contact, and pulls the man’s hand even closer to tease him further.

And then Dean brings the handcuff up and snaps it around Cas’s wrist.

For a moment, Cas looks too shocked to respond. He stares at the metal band, then directs his shock at Dean, then look back to the handcuff. “You’re joking.”

Dean grins smugly. “Nope.” Before Cas can do anything about it, he takes the second cuff and locks it around his own wrist, securing them together. He lifts his hand up, taking Cas’s along with it. “No getting away from me now, sweetheart.”

“You— _Dean_.” Cas pulls on the chain, but Dean refuses to let his hand move, so the only thing it accomplishes is making the metal around his wrist cut into the skin. His lower lip juts out in a pout that is definitely _not_ adorable. “Dean, I know I made a mistake earlier, but this seems a bit extreme.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Extreme, huh? Are you telling me you haven’t _once_ thought about ditching me in the middle of the night tonight?”

Cas opens his mouth like he’s going to object, but then snaps his jaw back closed and looks away. When he ultimately doesn’t say anything, Dean laughs.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now get comfy, bud. I plan on sleeping in.” To emphasize his point, Dean wiggles down into the bed and makes himself comfortable, forcibly pulling Cas along with him. The man looks torn between being amused and infuriated, so Dean flashes him another blinding grin. It’s ridiculously easy to be in a good mood now that he’s won. “Night, Cas. Sweet dreams.”

Dean rolls over halfway and closes his eyes, already ready to give into the tiredness tugging at his mind. The last thing he registers before falling asleep is feeling Cas slot in against his back, cuddling close to accommodate the short chain holding them together. Dean falls asleep more easily than he has in a long time.

He can go back to being mad in the morning.

~ ** ~

Much to Dean’s chagrin, Cas is gone when he wakes up in the morning. He bolts upright as soon as he realizes he’s alone, rapidly searching every corner of the room in the hopes of discovering that he hasn’t actually been abandoned.

As if there’s any way that the empty handcuff dangling from his wrist can be misinterpreted.

Cas is well and truly gone, but before Dean has to figure out whether he’s angry about that or heartbroken, he spots a piece of paper on the pillow beside him that instantly quells his rising panic. He snatches it up and squints at it with sleep-tired eyes.

 

_Dean,_

_Went downstairs to get coffee; Sam is already up. You looked like you needed your sleep, so forgive me for leaving you as you were. Join us when you’re ready._

_♥, Cas_

 

For as much as Dean wants to be irritated, the little heart that Cas signed his note with wiggles its way past his defenses. He’s supposed to be mad at Cas, damnit, and he should be even more upset about the Houdini act, but of course Cas had to go and appeal to his one weakness.

Bastard.

Dean folds up the note, and when he rolls out of bed, he slips it into an outer pocket of his duffle bag. He unlocks the handcuff still around his wrist and tucks the pair of them away as well, then dresses swiftly before heading downstairs. He catches the sound of voices when he reaches the bottom of the stairs and follows them to the kitchen, where he finds Sam and Cas sitting together at the kitchen table, each nursing a mug of coffee.

Exactly as promised, Dean is pleased to see.

“Mornin’,” he greets, prompting the two to look up. Cas practically beams at him.

“Good morning, Dean. Would you like coffee? That’s the second pot, it’s still fresh.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but makes his way toward the coffee anyway. “Second pot, huh? The hell’ve you two been up to this morning?”

Sam snorts. “I made the mistake of brewing four cups’ worth. Cas is on his third.”

Dean nearly fumbles the coffee mug he was reaching for, only catching it at the last second. He looks at Cas with wide eyes. “Dude, what the hell!”

Cas, at least, looks sheepish. “It’s an addiction I am well aware of. Although in my defense, I also didn’t sleep well last night.”

Sam pulls a face at that, which makes Dean chuckle as he turns back toward the counter to pour himself a coffee. When he’s done, he replaces the pot and goes to join them at the table, sipping at the dark, bitter liquid in his mug. He watches Sam out of the corner of his eye when he says to Cas, “Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with handcuffs on before?”

As could have been expected, Sam chokes on his next mouthful of coffee. Cas heaves an exasperated sigh, but there’s still a teasing light in his eyes when he meets Dean’s gaze.

“I have, but not last night,” he says with a smile. “I’m a Krushnic, Dean, a member of the biggest mob family in America. I learned to get out of handcuffs before I could _walk_.”

“Damn criminal types,” Dean grumbles into his mug. He hadn’t considered how skilled Cas may or may not be in escaping cuffs when he locked them together, but he realizes now that he shouldn’t be surprised that it didn’t work out in his favor. But after Cas’s note and his good mood now—Dean can’t bring himself to be as irritated as he should be.

And maybe knowing that Cas can get out of handcuffs is a little bit hot, too; sue him.

Sam still looks reasonably lost and mildly horrified, but he shakes it off now that Dean has joined them. Dean sees his brother steel himself before setting his coffee aside and grabbing his laptop from the center of the table, and he clears his throat. “So, Dean. Castiel has been filling me in on the basics of what’s going on. Evil brother who happens to be the country’s biggest mobster, fake arrest warrant to force him out of hiding, abducted sister as collateral; sound about right?”

Dean’s gaze slides over toward Cas. “Yeah, I think those are the basics. Have you gotten started on any kind of research yet?”

Sam nods, tapping his fingers against his laptop. “A bit, yeah. At least, enough to know that the murder charges Castiel was brought in on really were fake. Whoever forged it was good, used names from real murders to add legitimacy, but none of it actually lines up with what was then attached to his picture and DNA. You pull at any string, and it all falls apart.”

“Great. I told Bobby to look into that, too, so hopefully he finds the same thing.”

“I’m sure he will.” Sam picks his coffee back up and takes a drink, then holds it close to him as he looks between Dean and Cas. “To pick up on where we left off, then—Dean, how did you get roped into this mess? What happened between Castiel getting arrested and now?”

Despite the fact that they’ve already been talking, Cas looks toward Dean, too, obviously willing to give up the spotlight. Dean almost wishes he could hear Cas tell it instead of having to do it himself, but with both his brother and Cas staring at him, he doesn’t really care to argue.

He launches into an explanation without any more prompting, going back through all that happened to tell Sam about arresting Cas, watching over him in the holding cell, and then fighting off the thugs who tried to kill them both. Cas interjects every now and again to add in small details—he names the two thugs and lists their previous ranks within the Krushnic hierarchy, which Dean finds utterly fascinating—and Sam asks a few clarifying questions when he needs to, but other than that, the retelling goes smoothly.

That is, right up until Dean is interrupted by his phone ringing. He glances at it with concern—there are only a few people who might be calling him right now—then looks quickly to Cas before picking it up. _Bobby_. He puts it on speaker.

“Talk to me, Bobby.”

“You still with Castiel, boy?”

Cas sits up straighter in his seat. Dean suppresses a sigh and replies, “Yeah. And Sam; they can both hear you.”

Sam chimes in, “Hey, Bobby. Dean was just bringing me up to speed. How are things looking?”

Bobby sighs. “Well, I wouldn’t’a called if it was looking _good_ , you idjit. This ain’t a social call.”

“This concerns me?” Cas asks, and from Bobby’s barely-there pause, Dean knows the answer is a resounding _yes_. He tenses in preparation for the blow.

“There’s an APB out for Castiel Krushnic. Nation-wide, from the looks of things. Castiel, I’ve been talking to your Witness Protection agent, and according to what she can see, the police are working off an ‘anonymous tip’ that was probably your brother.” He huffs a dry laugh. “Guess callin’ ya _Jimmy Novak_ wasn’t getting enough done for his liking.”

Across the table, Sam chokes on his saliva. He quickly ducks away from the table to steady himself, leaving Dean glaring after him. Cas raises an eyebrow at him, but Dean waves it off and turns his attention back to Bobby. He doesn’t even want to _know_ what Sam’s problem is.

“Bobby, don’t let people back home freak out about this, alright? Don’t let ‘em know at all, if you can help it. We’re going to be home eventually, and the last thing we’re gonna need at that point is for this to be a huge gossip-fest.”

Now Cas, too, makes a face and turns away. Dean stares at the back of his head for a long moment, then shakes his head and looks away. The people he chooses to surround himself with—he can’t understand them.

“I’ll do what I can, son,” Bobby says. “You know how the folks are around here, though, either it’ll be a problem, or it won’t. No way of knowin’ until we get there. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean sighs and rubs at his temple. It’s hardly noon, and he already has a headache. “Either way, thanks Bobby. And thanks for the heads up about Cas; we’ll be careful not to let anyone see him. Let his Witness Protection agent know that we’ve got him on lock-down, okay? We’ll do what we can.”

“Roger that. You guys’ve got everything else under control, then?”

Dean smiles tightly at his phone. “It’s about as good as it’s getting. Keep on it, old man. Oh, and—do me a favor and go check on Impala, will you? Or send Garth, if you have to. I don’t want my baby on her own for too long.”

Sam chooses that moment to pop back into the conversation, falling back into his chair with a laugh. “That horse already has the best stable in town, Dean, you don’t have to act like she’s a child being left alone for the weekend.”

Bobby laughs, but Dean scowls. “Alright, shut your pie hole, asswipe. Bobby, just—please?”

“I’ll check on the damn horse, kid, don’t get your breeches in a twist.”

Dean lets out a breath. “Thanks, Bobby. Call us if anything new comes up.”

“Will do.”

When the call ends, Sam wastes no time in getting down to business. He sits back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin, eyes bright as they flick between Dean and Cas. “So, Dean. You didn’t tell me Cas is _Jimmy Novak_.”

And suddenly Dean understands why he choked when he heard the name. Dean blushes profusely, going red all the way up to his ears. Cas has already turned back around with a questioning stare, and Dean definitely _doesn’t_ want to answer to. He hurriedly clears his throat, and discreetly kicks Sam in the shin for good measure.

Despite the kick, Sam grins, and Dean glares right back. “Not important, Sam,” he bites out. “Drop it. Now.”

“Drop what?” Cas asks. “Why is my name important?”

“Cas—”

“It’s not,” Sam interrupts, “except for the fact that I’ve been having to listen to Dean say that name for _months_ —”

“Sam!”

“Oh,” Cas says softly. Dean had been considering burying his head in his hands, or maybe just shooting himself as a distraction, but that single word makes him look up. He makes eye contact with Cas for just a fraction of a second, and even in just that brief instant, he can tell that any efforts to deny what Sam is saying are a lost cause. Dean ducks his head, his eyes dropping.

Cas’s chair scrapes loudly against the wood floor when he pushes it back to stand up. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, voice stilted in a way that Dean can tell is forced. He turns on his heel without another word to either Winchester, and then walks out of the room and disappears upstairs.

In the silence that follows, Dean kicks Sam in the shin again. “Way to go, jackass.”

“I…” Sam rubs at the back of his neck, then quickly flips his laptop open and hides his face behind it. “Not perfectly executed. Sorry.”

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“Love you too, bro.”

~ ** ~

After leaving the Winchesters, Castiel closes himself in Sam’s office to use the computer in there for research. Sam had invited him to do as much when they were in the kitchen before Dean came downstairs, and he’s glad for the modicum of privacy.

Dean’s words have given him a lot to think about; he needs the privacy more than ever.

He and Dean haven’t exactly talked about the future, nor have they yet had reason to, but knowing that Dean expects him to return to Sweetwater Springs after Lucifer is dealt with weighs on him more than he cares to admit. Castiel liked his life in Sweetwater Springs well enough, liked the small town and the kindly people who inhabited it—Charlie in the library, the Trans in the general store; the people who have made him feel welcomed despite his self-imposed isolation—but at the same time, he wonders if he can actually call it _his_ life. That was the life of Jimmy Novak, and Castiel Krushnic is not Jimmy Novak.

If only he could make that distinction clear to Dean, without also shattering the already-delicate perception Dean has of him.

Not that that seems to matter at this point, anyway. Lord knows Castiel hasn’t exactly been working to _preserve_ Dean’s faith in him.

But despite that, Dean cares about him. Castiel knows that as a fact—although that didn’t make the confirmation from Sam any less of a slap in the face. After sleeping with Dean the first time, Castiel had convinced himself that that was it. He may have spent every day thinking about Dean and wishing things could have been different, but it was easiest to stay away if he told himself that Dean didn’t want him back. That to Dean it was just a one-night stand, that Dean is beautiful enough to have plenty more conquests that were better, more worthy, more deserving.

Dean deserves someone who is as good as he is, not someone with blood on his hands and a dark past to match.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to break the news to Dean, but the fact that he has to is indisputable. If he’s going to disappoint Dean again, it may be good to warn him in advance.

He buries himself in research to avoid having to think about it any more than that.

For the next several hours, Castiel digs. He uses old family tricks to keep all of his internet searches secure and untraceable—he may have only just met the man, but he loathes the idea of any of his activity being traced back to Sam and causing trouble for him—and hacks his way into all of the basic informational databases the Krushnics once used to store contacts, dates, locations. Most all of them have been wiped, and any files he can recover are in heavily-coded Russian. He still reads them easily, of course, but even his proficiency doesn’t make it easy work. By the time it’s dark beyond the office’s windows and Castiel’s eyes are burning from staring at the monitor for so long, he has very little to show for it.

A page of haphazard, mostly-useless notes. A vague idea of Lucifer’s business habits. A list of potential leads to investigate more thoroughly.

And a single name.

He scribbles the name across the bottom of a piece of paper, then circles it twice. He needs to find an address still, somewhere to start the search, but a name is better than nothing. Maybe he’ll pass it to Dean or Sam to give himself a break. He’s not sure how much longer his eyes will hold up like this.

As if summoned by the thought, someone knocks on the door, then. Despite his need to delegate work, he isn’t actually ready to have to talk to anyone—isn’t ready to talk to _Dean_. Clearly, though, he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. He groans and drops his head into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His voice is rough from disuse when he calls back, “Come in.”

He doesn’t look up when the door swings open, but he doesn’t need to. He’s already grateful to have gotten as much time as he has to take his mind off of Dean, he supposes; it’s only fair that he face the music now and have _some_ kind of talk with the man. Much as he would love to deny it, there is a conversation which needs to be had.

“Castiel? You okay?”

Castiel startles, his hands falling away as he looks up at the man standing on the opposite side of the desk. His cheeks turn pink and he rakes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to collect himself. “Sam. Hello. I… expected you to be Dean.”

Sam huffs a soft laugh, lips ticking up in a smile. “Yeah, that’s not surprising. He’s knee-deep in tax records, though, and was about to order us some Chinese food. But I…” He pauses and rubs at the back of his neck. “I wanted to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

Castiel blinks. “Oh. Of course, Sam.” He sits up straighter in his borrowed desk chair and folds his hands in his lap. “What is it you want to discuss?”

“Dean.”

His stomach plummets. He manages a soft, “Oh,” but can’t bring himself to say any more.

 _Just when it was looking easy_.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and thankfully, he seems to know exactly how awkward the impending conversation is going to be for them both. He draws himself up to his full height in preparation and takes a deep breath inward, but even still, he doesn’t look at Castiel in a way that’s cruel, or condescending. He looks stern, yes, but stern is something Castiel can handle.

“Listen,” Sam goes on, “Castiel. I fully trust you in this fight against Lucifer, and I’m on your side. You don’t need to doubt that. But from what I’ve been able to get out of Dean while we’ve been working… I think it’ll be good if we talk.” He comes closer to the desk and leans against it, folding his arms across his chest. “You like Dean. Don’t you?”

Castiel nods. “Very much.”

“Okay. And you know that he likes you, correct? ‘Very much’?”

He winces slightly, but Castiel nods again. “Yes, I… I know. Why is it you’re asking?”

Sam sighs, then says bluntly, “Because, Cas, I need to make sure that you’re not going to break my brother’s heart.”

 _Ah_.

Castiel’s guilt swoops back in in full force. His eyes drop from Sam’s, and he makes an effort to choose his words carefully when he says, “Sam, breaking Dean’s heart is not my intention—”

“Bullshit,” Sam cuts in. When Castiel looks back up at him, he finds the younger Winchester’s eyes have narrowed dangerously. “I’m a lawyer, Castiel, I know loopholes when I see them. Let me guess; you don’t _want_ to break Dean’s heart, but you will if you have to? If it happens, it happens?”

Castiel flinches away from the words, but says nothing against them. He can’t.

When this becomes clear to Sam, he scoffs. “Jesus. You have no idea what this is going to do to him, do you?”

“Sam, I—”

“No. Listen to me for a minute, _Krushnic_.” Sam spits his name like it’s a curse, volatile even to the tongue. “Dean is a good man, and he has the best heart of anyone I know. It wasn’t hard for me to understand why he’s helping you—that’s just the kind of guy that he is, always going above and beyond to save everyone. But now that I know you’re Jimmy Novak, too?” Sam makes another sound, not unlike a choked growl. “Do you have even the _slightest_ idea of how long he’s been in love with you?”

Castiel closes his eyes tight. “Sam. I know that you’re trying to help your brother, but please. Don’t do this.”

Sam huffs. “He’s my brother, Cas. I’m not going to stand around and watch while he gets hurt.”

There’s nothing Castiel can say to that. He doesn’t want to fight with Sam over this, but saying that he won’t hurt Dean would be a lie, and he’s not able to commit to making it the truth.

When the silence stretches on, Sam sighs. Cas opens his eyes, and looks at him sympathetically. He wishes things didn’t have to be this way, but too much would need to change for Castiel to be able to give reassurances. He simply doesn’t have that kind of power.

Sam shakes his head and starts to leave. It’s impossible for Castiel to feel any more guilt than he already does, but the sight of the man turning his back on him cuts Castiel deep. He winces, but despite the void clawing at his chest, he forces himself to move.

“Sam.” The man turns back around immediately, too quickly, and Castiel forcefully tells himself he doesn’t see the hopeful glint in his eye. He folds his page of notes in half, circled name facing outward, and holds it out to Sam. “I need to find this man. Can you help?”

Sam’s face twists in blatant disappointment, but he still takes the paper and glances at the name scrawled across it. He takes a measured breath, then raises his gaze back to Castiel’s. “You think this guy can help?”

“He once ran our family’s security and money laundering. If there is anyone capable of finding Lucifer in the rat’s nest of information left behind, it would be him.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second before adding, “I believe Anna might have been in contact with him.”

Sam watches him steadily, and just when Castiel thinks he might be denied, the man’s lips pull up in a small, reserved smile. He holds the folded paper between his first two fingers, gesturing with them as he heads toward the door. “I’ll find him. Give me a few hours.”

Castiel sighs with relief. He calls out a, “Thank you, Sam,” which is acknowledged with a lazy salute before Sam leaves the office and goes back to his work station downstairs. He hopes his confidence in Sam’s abilities aren’t misplaced. But until he can determine if it is or not—he needs a shower, and a chance to get his head on straight.

~ ** ~

As luck would have it, Frank Devereaux’s most recent address is only a three-hour drive from Sam’s house. It takes Sam several hours to puzzle that much out, thanks to the man’s extraneous security measures, but Castiel is so ecstatic to have any sort of progress that he doesn’t mind the delay. When Sam handed him a piece of paper with the address written out, Castiel was so happy he could have kissed him.

(Dean had given him a look that said he knew exactly what Castiel was thinking, so Castiel settled for hugging Sam as thanks, instead. He might have kissed _Dean_ to celebrate the success, but that was a can of worms he didn’t yet want to open. Dean’s mood toward him may have improved, but that doesn’t mean the air is clear between them.)

Since they found Frank Devereaux’s address so late, they don’t set out for it until midmorning the following day, on Dean’s insistence. They rest up and then eat a hearty breakfast before getting on the road the next morning, making their trip eastward with a promise from Sam that he’ll keep up with his own digging from home while they’re out doing theirs.

Castiel is quiet as they drive, keeping to himself and avoiding any in-depth conversations. Dean, at least, is in a good mood; the road brings him to life before Castiel’s eyes, dispelling the last of the funk that had hung over him since Castiel handcuffed him to the motel room bed. It takes far longer for Castiel to feel even remotely at-ease, and by that point, they’re near enough to their destination that the tension sets right back in.

When they cross into the town their quarry supposedly lives in, Castiel reads off his address for reference, then navigates them through the town according to the map he pulled up on Dean’s phone. The town is only slightly bigger than Sweetwater Springs, but is obviously less designed toward tourism. It’s not nearly as quaint, and lacks the Southern charm Castiel has come to know and love. He knew this region, once; funny, how northern towns don’t appeal to him like they once did.

The house that they come to is on the outskirts of town, which Castiel does not find at all surprising. Given what he’s been able to piece together, Frank Devereaux is not only a private man, but also a man _deserving_ of that need for privacy. He knows many names in many places, and the Krushnics are not the only group who could potentially become a dangerous enemy.

Dean parks Bobby’s truck in the driveway when they get there, and although it’s not as discreet as Castiel would normally like, there are few alternatives. Frank Devereaux’s house is so isolated that anyone inside would have been able to see them coming a mile away; they’ve already lost the element of surprise.

Castiel is the first to reach the front door, but he knows that Dean isn’t too far behind. There are shades over all of the windows preventing him from looking inside, and though the doorbell is connected—Castiel presses it twice in quick succession, and hears the answering chime playing within the house—there’s no answer. He only waits for a few minutes before his patience wears thin, at which point he growls to Dean, “Stand back.”

Dean grumbles under his breath something that sounds an awful lot like “just my luck I get a crazy one”, but he does as he’s told and moves away from the door.

It takes three good kicks to cave the door in. When it eventually bursts open beneath the heel of his boot, Dean lets out a low, impressed whistle. Castiel just frowns at the cheap wood. He used to be able to kick a door in with a single kick; he’s losing his touch.

But then he sees what’s on the other side of the broken door, and all of the air rushes from Castiel’s lungs. He steps through to get a better look, praying to every entity in the sky that he doesn’t see what he thinks he sees, but changing his perspective doesn’t change reality.

The house is empty.

Detached wires hang from every visible outlet and port in the house, and a number of empty server racks and desks litter the space. All of it gives the impression of a man forced to take everything he could carry and run, lest he get caught or get killed. Given how Castiel had come across his name, he doesn’t doubt that that’s the case.

Castiel searches the entire house, but despite how hard he tries, there’s nothing to be scavenged. The only servers remaining are found smashed to pieces in the kitchen, and the only evidence of a paper trail is in the ash of the fireplace. On one single, torn-up scrap, Castiel can just make out the word ‘Krushnic’, but nothing more.

Dean is silent through all of it. He had his gun at the ready when they first arrived, but has long since returned it to its holster. He acts as Castiel’s shadow while he searches, but offers little in the way of assistance. He’s a silent support, and while a part of Castiel is grateful for the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his failure, the bigger part of him is centered on the fact that it _is_ a failure.

His one lead, gone. Slipped right through his fingers. Frank Devereaux can’t have been gone for more than a couple days at most; there’s hardly even dust on what was left behind.

Eventually, Dean slides a hand across Castiel’s shoulders and guides him out of the house. Everything in Castiel _screams_ with the need to object, but in reality, he lacks the energy. He had allowed himself to hope that this would be his answer, and the fact that it’s not is crushing.

Instead of taking them all the way back to Sam’s house, Dean goes through a drive-thru for food, and then gets them to a motel for the night. And it is, somehow, night; Castiel hadn’t realized how much time he spent scouring the leftover debris of Frank Devereaux’s life, but it must have been at least several hours. He wants to feel guilty for having kept Dean cooped up that whole time, but he can’t. If he had found even one scrap of information, it would have made it all worth it.

The fact that he didn’t find even that one, key scrap infuriates him. It infuriates him to the point that, by the time he and Dean are in their motel room for the night, Castiel is twitchy, infuriated with Frank Devereaux and Anna and Lucifer and everyone ever associated with the Krushnics and the damn universe itself.

The kinetic energy that he can feel in his bones is not one Castiel is unfamiliar with. In the past when he’s felt like this, he has gone to the shooting range, maybe picked a fight with some underling in the organization who thought it was a good idea to mouth off. If he was truly desperate for an outlet, he might have enlisted himself to go on some dangerous mission or another and gone out to play Krushnic for his brother. The latter only happened a handful of times, but it still did happen.

Now, though, he has none of those outlets. He’s on the brink of snapping, and it’s only a matter of time before he does.

Dean comes up behind him and touches his hip. Castiel tenses, but adrenaline courses through his veins. He needs to move, needs to expend some of his energy, needs to be _angry_ —

“Cas—”

Castiel doesn’t know what Dean was going to say, but he doesn’t care, either. He silences the man with a bruising kiss, and when Dean gasps in surprise, he takes advantage of the opportunity to thrust his tongue into the other man’s mouth. He devours Dean’s mouth, kissing him like he’s starving for it, like he needs it to live. And in a way, he does.

He needs to get himself in order, and so far, Dean’s body hasn’t failed to provide him that.

Castiel can tell that his urgency is surprising Dean—it’s nothing like the last two times they entangled themselves—but that’s yet another detail he’s beyond caring about. As long as Dean isn’t objecting to his advances, nothing else holds meaning.

He backs Dean up against the wall, still kissing him as he hastily removes his shirt, then his belt. Dean kicks off his boots somewhere along the way, and once Castiel has torn his jeans out of the way, he palms at the man’s ass. The gesture has Dean moaning against his mouth, and Castiel takes the opportunity to bite at the man’s bottom lip, tugging on it with his teeth until it’s red and blood-swollen.

His fingers curl into the front of Dean’s shirt, and he’s shifting his weight to pull Dean back with him towards the bed when the man breaks the kiss to gasp, “Fuck me, Cas.”

For a moment, the request surprises Castiel, takes him out of his rampage and leaves him blinking at the man he has pinned against the wall. They haven’t gone that way, yet. Castiel didn’t think they _would_ ; given the stereotypical stigmas where Dean is from, and his metrosexual personality, he wouldn’t have guessed that the man would surrender him this.

But even if this wasn’t something that Castiel had an intrinsic need for at the moment, it’s something he wants, and certainly has no trouble doing.

He growls his affirmation against Dean’s lips and uses his grip on the man’s hip to slam him back up against the wall with little gentleness. It pulls a soft cry from Dean, but when Castiel drops a hand to stroke at his erection through his briefs, he finds Dean still hard, the head of his cock wet with precome. Castiel smirks and drops his head to suck a bruise into the curve of Dean’s throat, then hooks his fingers around the waistband of Dean’s underwear and yanks them to the floor. When Castiel fully looks at him again, he realizes Dean is now leaning fully naked against the wall.

Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the bruise blossoming on the deputy’s throat, his spit-slick and swollen lips, the proud jut of his cock. Dean is beautiful, and Castiel’s fingers twitch with the urge to tear at that image until Dean is a begging, writhing, disheveled mess beneath him.

He lays one hand on Dean’s shoulder, one on his hip, and, before the deputy can react, spins him to press his chest against the wall. His hips rut against Dean’s ass, and he knows damn well that the drag of denim against bare skin can’t be comfortable, but Dean lets out a low moan and pushes back against him. _Fuck_. “Don’t move,” he orders; he keeps his eyes on Dean as he crosses the short distance to their shared bag for the bottle of lube, and just as ordered, Dean doesn’t move from where he’s pressed up against the wall other than to shiver. Castiel doesn’t waste any time in returning to him.

He needs an outlet, _now_ , wants it hard and fast and rough, wants to hear Dean cry out beneath him as Castiel takes him apart. And he plans to do just that.

Dean gasps as a slick finger breaches him in one, swift motion, and Castiel groans in return, biting at the back of Dean’s shoulder to stifle himself. He’s aware that while he needs to take out his frustration and his fear and his failure, he doesn’t want to hurt Dean. With this in mind, he backs off slightly, fucking Dean with one finger and then patiently stretching him with two as he litters Dean’s throat and shoulders with bruises and bite marks.

Soon enough, Dean is fucking himself back on the three fingers pressed deep into his lube-slick hole, and Castiel knows that the stretching he’s done is right on the edge of what will be comfortable, but he can’t wait any longer. He _needs_ to be inside Dean.

The man is trembling as Castiel toes off his boots and tugs off his jeans and underwear, and Castiel smooths a hand down his flank to settle him—the one gentle gesture he’s afforded Dean in this whole encounter. He retrieves the bottle of lube and pours more out into his palm to spread over his cock. He presses close to Dean, ready to drive into him from behind, but changes his mind at the last second.

“Turn around,” he tells Dean, his tone hard and firm. When Dean turns back to face him, he looks even more disheveled—there’s a dark flush to his cheeks, his eyes are lust-blown to the point where hardly any green remains around the edge, and his lip is even more swollen, as if he’s been biting it while he was opened up. Castiel surges forward to claim his mouth in a bruising kiss, and Dean simply lets him, just as he obediently lifts his legs to wrap around Castiel’s waist at the insistence of the hands sliding beneath his thighs.

Castiel holds Dean up with one hand on his ass, pinning him between his body and the wall, and uses his other hand to guide his cock to Dean’s open, waiting hole. He lets Dean sink down onto him inch by inch, sliding down the wall, until Castiel is completely sheathed inside the man and his balls are settled against his ass. Dean’s forehead is pressed against Castiel’s as he gasps his way through the stretch and burn of being split open, and Castiel won’t deny him this moment of adjustment.

As soon as Dean shifts his hips, motion accompanied by a soft moan that rumbles through his chest and into Castiel’s skin, Castiel lets himself go. He fucks into Dean with sharp, powerful thrusts, only pulling out halfway before fucking back into the man. Dean’s head connects with the wall with a loud _thunk_ , but from the euphoria written across his face, Castiel doesn’t think it’s much of a problem. It’s hard and wild and animalistic, Castiel’s teeth marking the stretched skin of Dean’s throat while his nails dig sharp crescents into the curve of Dean’s ass. Dean is perfect, taking whatever Castiel gives him, his own hands grabbing at Cas’s shoulders and holding on for dear life as Castiel’s thrusts push him up the wall.

It isn’t long before the movements of Castiel’s hips grow more and more erratic, and he knows that his orgasm won’t hold off much longer, so he presses his hips up harder against Dean’s to wedge him against the wall as one hand comes up to wrap around the man’s cock. He can only really grind into Dean like this, but feeling the way Dean tightens around him as Castiel begins to stroke his erection more than makes up for it. Dean is nearly shaking in his arms now, his muscular thighs clenching tight around Castiel’s waist. Only a few strokes later, he comes with a broken moan, spilling over Cas’s hand and painting his stomach with strips of white.

The tightness around his cock is nearly unbelievable, and Castiel shifts his come-smeared hand to grip Dean’s ass again as he redoubles his effort, slamming Dean up against the wall with every thrust and coming with a shout not long after.

His energy leaves him all at once, and he slumps against Dean, pressing their sweaty foreheads together and letting his weight hold them up. They stay like that until Castiel feels like he can trust his legs again, and when he eases his now-soft cock out of Dean, he carries the man over to the overlooked bed. Dean watches him from where he’s been set down on the mattress, his soft look of concern completely at-odds with his debauched appearance.

Castiel avoids his gaze, instead going into the bathroom to get a hand towel to clean himself up. Never one to neglect his partner—even if the sex had been far from gentle—he grabs a clean one for Dean before returning to the main room and uses it to wipe the man down. It’s only when he’s clean that Castiel meets his gaze, and Dean gives him a small, soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Feel better?”

Castiel winces. “Sorry.”

Dean’s gaze softens at that, his smile turning a bit more genuine. “Don’t be,” he says, and the warmth in his eyes is too much for Castiel to handle. “For what it’s worth, that was probably the best sex I’ve ever had, anyway.”

Ignoring the praise, Castiel reaches out for the man and pulls him against his chest, laying them both down and pulling at the sheets until he gets them over their bodies. Physical contact isn’t ideal for what Castiel feels at the moment, but when they’re this close, he at least doesn’t have to look at Dean’s face. He’s sure that the proximity will be good for Dean, anyway, and considering Dean is the one who was just used as Castiel’s punching bag, it is his comfort which matters most.

After a few moments, Castiel sighs. “I really am sorry,” he says again, “and I do have reason to be. You didn’t deserve that. Just because I have issues doesn’t mean they need to be…”

“Taken out on me?” Dean finishes with a wry smile. He turns his face toward Castiel’s collarbone and presses a soft kiss to the skin there. “I don’t mind, Cas. I’m here for you, you should know that by now. Today was rough, the last few days have been rough—I get it. Okay?”

Castiel shakes his head, because damnit, he needs Dean to _get this_. “You’re missing the part where I said I have issues,” he says through gritted teeth. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the stained ceiling, ignoring the way Dean’s head raises to look at him. “It’s not an accident that I snapped, Dean. I was raised for violence. You know who I am, what I come from.”

Dean lowers his head back to Castiel’s chest as he processes that. He’s quiet for a while, and when he eventually speaks, his voice is so soft it’s hardly audible—though that doesn’t stop his words from sounding far too loud in the quiet of the room, hitting Castiel like a bullet to the chest.

“I don’t, though,” Dean says. “I don’t know you. I mean, Jesus, Cas, even after all the shit we’ve been through in the last couple days, I knew more about Jimmy Novak than I do about _you_. That doesn’t stop me from caring about you, but I don’t know where you come from. I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours.”

For several long moments, Castiel doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what _to_ say. He didn’t mean to initiate a heavy conversation, but he can’t leave this subject as it is. He doesn’t want to hide himself, not from Dean. But he doesn’t know how to stop hiding himself, either. As the silence stretches on, Dean evidently takes it to mean that he’s not getting an answer. He huffs and tries to withdraw, but Castiel stops him with firm fingers against his spine.

“Most of what I told you as Jimmy Novak was true,” Castiel begins. His throat clicks when he swallows, and his hand starts sweeping up and down across Dean’s back to encourage him to stay where he is. “I like to read. I would like to be a novelist. I adore nature, and have a passion for bees in particular. They’re very underappreciated. When I was little, I had a stuffed bee that my babushka gave me. That’s likely what started the obsession.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “Cas—”

Castiel digs his fingers into Dean’s skin again to silence him, his brows pulling down in a frown. For the first time since he started talking, he looks away from the ceiling and meets Dean’s gaze. He gives him a stern look. “You want to know about me, so this is it. This is me. Please, don’t interrupt.”

Though he looks somewhat dazed, Dean nods.

“Thank you.” It takes a second, but Castiel’s hand resumes its steady motions over Dean’s back, and his words come soon after. He starts at the beginning, and touches on everything he can think of. “I was born in New York, but spent my first few years in St. Petersburg in Russia, with my mother’s extended family. My father got into some trouble when I was seven, so we moved to America full time for fear of being caught and kept from the country. Anna was only a baby. She never spent the time with my mother’s family that I did, which meant she never knew our babushka like I did. There was a time when I was a teenager when I would make her cookies and tell her they were babushka’s recipe; she never knew any better, of course.”

Dean chuckles at that, breath warm against Cas’s skin. “God, that’s adorable. Some big, bad Russian mobster you were.”

Castiel’s lips curve up in a smile, mirroring Dean’s amusement. “Don’t make fun of me, I was like fifteen.”

That just makes Dean laugh more. “I wasn’t making fun of you! It’s cute as hell, I mean it. I used to do the same shit with Sammy, anyways. I’m not judging.”

“Mhm.”

Dean flicks him in the ribs. “Come on, don’t get distracted. Keep on with the life of Cas, I was invested, I swear.”

“I’m sure.” Despite the teasing tone to his voice, Castiel does go on, and Dean tucks back in against his chest to listen. “We had a house,” Castiel says, his tone levelling back out, “in northern Michigan. It was our family home, chosen at my mother’s insistence to be away from my father’s main compound. Not many leaders would have listened to their wives in such a scenario, but my mother wanted to be somewhere quiet and out of the way, and my father didn’t have the heart to refuse her. She was sick, and had been since shortly after Anna was born. She ended up dying in that house; despite having the best medical attention money could buy, she succumbed to her illness shortly before my nineteenth birthday.”

Dean’s eyes scrunch closed, and he lets out a heavy breath. He stretches himself up to press his face into Castiel’s neck, hugging him more than just cuddling him. “Cas, I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that.”

“I know, _moya lyubov'_.” Castiel sighs into Dean’s hair, but accepts the hug by curling himself further around Dean in turn. He remembers Dean telling him about his own mother, the night they met. They hadn’t talked about it in-depth, but Castiel still knows that Dean’s reaction isn’t an empty one. “I know you went through that, as well,” he adds. “I’m equally sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Dean says in a way that almost sounds dismissive. But Castiel knows better.

He presses a kiss to Dean’s hairline. “You know just as well as I do that time only means so much. Pain is pain, no matter how distant.”

Dean swallows audibly. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

There’s a brief lull in the conversation, then, both of them likely thinking about their respective losses. Neither of them mention their lost fathers, but the knowledge of their existence hangs heavily in the air. It’s a much messier topic, and better left alone.

After a few moments, Castiel adds softly, “Anna was always more affected by our mother’s passing than I was. I had already been doing work for my father for several years by the time her sickness became too much, but Anna was still home with her every day. It was hard on all of us, of course; our mother was an integral part of our family, and after she passed, our father wouldn’t let us go back to that house. She died, and everything changed.”

“How did Lucifer take it?”

“Like he took most things,” Castiel answers with another frown. He usually tries not to think about this; he already loathes his brother enough as it is. “Meaning, he kept his emotions to himself, and turned it into an opportunity for all of us to do more work for the family. He never really said much about our mother after she was gone.”

“He was—hey!”

Dean’s reply is abruptly cut off when Castiel sits up, moving so quickly that the man is dumped haphazardly to the mattress. He distantly registers that Dean looks offended by this development, but Castiel’s mind is moving too quickly for him to pay his lover any more mind than that.

In all the time they’ve spent looking for Lucifer, they’ve been doing so through attempts to track him. They’ve tried to track his purchases, his contacts, his men. Frank Devereaux was a promising lead because he might have been able to tell them something about a secret location in Lucifer’s name, or maybe, as Castiel had been preparing himself for, told them that Lucifer made it out of the country. A bunker, a private jet, a damn _boat_ —anything along those lines would be exactly what they were looking for.

But the most obvious place for him to be hiding is the one least likely to be guessed.

 _I miss mom_.

Castiel feels faint.

“The fuck, Cas?” Dean is saying when he tunes back into reality. He prods irritably at Castiel’s shoulder. “What’s your damage?”

Castiel turns to him, chest heaving and eyes wild. When his gaze meets Dean’s, Dean’s frustration quickly turns to surprise. “Cas?” he asks, more carefully this time, and Castiel’s lips split into a blinding grin.

“I know where Lucifer is.”

~ ** ~

Castiel sees the bright flash of police lights long before they make it to the house. The wooded area that his childhood home is situated in seems to catch the light and reflect it for miles around, meaning that as they tear up the long, winding drive to reach the house at the top of the hill, he knows far in advance what they’re going to find at the top. It does nothing to help his anxiety.

After he shared his revelation with Dean, the two of them fumbled their way out of bed and got on the road within a matter of minutes. Dean called Sam so that he could try to verify the hunch, and while they waited for him to call them back, Castiel made a call of his own. The FBI officer in charge of the search for Lucifer was ecstatic to have a lead, and promised to have a team together as soon as possible. Police, SWAT, paramedics for Anna, air support; everything would be ready. Sam called back before Castiel even finished confirming that the FBI was en-route, and when he hurriedly switched lines, it was to hear confirmation that the home he once lived in was owned by a subsidiary of Lucifer’s. It was buried, but undeniable.

The only place he could be.

When they reach the house, they find it completely surrounded by law enforcement of every kind. The mass of cars and agents prevents Dean from getting the truck very close, but as soon as his speed drops enough, Castiel jumps from the vehicle anyway. He hears Dean call his name, but it doesn’t slow him.

He needs to get there. He needs to get to the house, needs to get to Anna—

Castiel’s ears are already ringing when he encounters the first line of resistance. A man in a SWAT uniform attempts to stop him with a hand on his chest, and when Castiel attempts to push past, a woman in an FBI vest joins him. The ringing in Castiel’s ears only gets louder, and he struggles harder.

“Let me through! My sister is in there, let me _through_!”

One of the agents is attempting to speak to him, but Castiel hears none of it. All he knows is that he somehow manages to get past them, get closer to the weathered house he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from, before being stopped again.

This time, it’s Dean’s arms who come around him and hold him in place. They lock around him like iron bars, and despite how much Castiel thrashes, he cannot escape them. Dean forces him against his chest and pets at his hair, speaking soft, steadying words to him between bouts of louder, equally-indecipherable things clearly directed outwards. Whoever it is he’s speaking to, Castiel trusts him to be able to handle it; he doesn’t have the wherewithal to engage himself.

There’s a gunshot in the house. Castiel’s entire body convulses at the sound, while the entirety of the police force around him is spurred into action of some kind or another. Dean’s arms tighten even further around Castiel’s middle, and with perfect timing; two more shots ring out, the ache in Castiel’s chest ratcheting up with each one.

He needs to be in there. He needs to be in there, he needs to _be there_.

The SWAT and FBI agents are still standing close to Dean and Castiel—close enough that when their radios burst to life, he hears every word clearly.

“ _Door opening, hostage retrieved_.”

Castiel’s eyes have been trained on the upstairs windows, but they drop to the door just in time to see it swing open. Two figures in full SWAT gear shuffle through while a third brings up the rear, and huddled between the three of them, red hair bright against the black of her escorts’ uniforms—

Dean’s arms release, and Castiel doesn’t even think before launching himself toward her. This time, no one stops him. “ _Anna_!”

She looks up in surprise when she hears his voice, and her lips silently form his name. Her expression brightens minutely, but even from a distance, Castiel can see that her eyes flood with tears. She pushes away from the SWAT agents around her and rushes toward him, stumbling over her feet until she crashes into his arms.

Anna clings to him and sobs into his chest. She’s battered and bruised, and her hair is greasy from the time she’s gone without a shower. It makes Castiel loathe his elder brother even more than he already did—but now is not the time for those thoughts.

Anna is with him, now. Not Lucifer. She’s finally safe.

He hugs his sister tightly, whispering assurances into her ear until she stops shaking. She stays tucked against him even as he guides her back toward the safety of the police cars. Dean slots in on his other side and presses a hand against the small of his back, supporting Castiel like it’s as easy as breathing. Castiel doesn’t even have words for what a relief it is.

They move back into the safety of the police line to wait for the next development. A paramedic arrives to tend to Anna, and a number of agents are already eager to question her, but Dean wards them all off with stern looks and sharp words, giving the Krushnics the space they need to breathe.

Several long, tense minutes later, the radios crackle with another string of words from the team inside. Castiel can’t hear well enough to make sense of it this time, but luckily, he doesn’t need to.

The front door opens again, and this time, the officers who step through are pulling a bloodied, handcuffed Lucifer along with them. His face is twisted into a permanent scowl Castiel knows well, and has never been happier to see.

As Lucifer is led to a police car, he catches sight of the group of agents huddled around them. Most importantly, he catches sight of Castiel. His brother’s face contorts into a malicious grin, and he strains against the officers detaining him in order to exchange even a few words with Cas.

“You better watch your fucking back, Castiel,” Lucifer spits, and for once in his life, the signature way he growls his threats does nothing to intimidate Castiel. “You and your backwater boy-toy both. You’ll pay for this.”

Anna curls tighter to his chest, but Castiel just smirks, his lip curling viciously. He stands up straighter, subtly asserting himself between Lucifer and Anna. Dean’s hand stays firmly on his back. “I’d like to see you get anything done from behind bars, brother.” He leans forward, and takes pleasure in the way Lucifer automatically shifts backwards. “I’ll have everything that’s left of the Krushnic empire razed before you even get to see the sun again. Rot in jail, Lucifer.”

The eldest Krushnic son’s shock is clear on his face, and it’s the last thing Castiel ever gets to see from him. The man is shoved into the back of a police car before he can reassemble his thoughts, and though he screams once the door closes behind him, the windows are tinted, and Castiel has no desire to think about him ever again.

Eventually, the vehicle that Lucifer was shoved into departs, and once it does, the rest of the herd of agents descends on Castiel and Anna. It’s only Dean’s influence which keeps Castiel from objecting when paramedics lead Anna away, but it works out just fine that she was taken to an ambulance, because mere moments after she’s gone, his adrenaline disappears. He finds himself sagging heavily against Dean’s chest even as he fields questions from the FBI, CIA, DEA, and every other three-letter acronym imaginable, it seems. It seems to take forever, but ultimately, Dean guides him out of that situation, as well, and walks him back to the shelter of the truck.

“I gave Anna my phone number,” he says, preempting the question that Castiel was prepared to ask. Dean smiles, probably knowing exactly that. He goes on, “Everything’s going to be fine, okay, sweetheart? Let’s get out of here.”

Castiel nods, so Dean wraps him in another hug. Even though he knows perfectly well that he shouldn’t, Castiel lets himself enjoy it. One last time.

 

~ *One Month Later* ~

 

Texas summers might be ridiculously overheated, but the winters have a tendency to overcompensate. Even in his car, Castiel feels partially frozen. The heater in his rental car is spotty at best, and he made the mistake of leaving his coat in his suitcase when he got into it at the airport.

California had been much warmer.

But as it was, California had nothing to offer him. The last of the federal agents and attorneys had assured him that they had all they needed to dismantle the final pieces of the Krushnic infrastructure, meaning that he was free to do as he pleased. He had had a long conversation with Hannah after that, and though his Witness Protection agent had thought it a good idea to be reassigned into a new life, lest Lucifer actually arrange an attempt on his life, he had disagreed.

There was only one life he wanted, after all.

He parks next to the sleek, fresh-off-the-line, Sweetwater Springs Police Department Dodge Charger in the driveway, shoves the keys into the pocket of his slacks, and then goes to the front door before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn’t waste time going for his coat, despite how badly he wants to procrastinate, but as he raps his knuckles against the wood, he can’t help but feel self-conscious about nearly every aspect of his appearance.

There are bags under his eyes, and his hair is a mess. His breath fogs in front of his face with every exhale, and he feels a step away from shivering. He’s still dressed for a professional setting in LA. He doesn’t match the small-town Texas look he was always striving for when he lived here. The only detail that fits his surroundings is his leather boots—but he’s only wearing those because they’re comfortable, and they’ve grown on him, not because he was intentionally dressing to inspire a sense of normalcy.

When there’s no answer at the door, even after he knocks a few additional times, Castiel tries hard not to feel crushed. It doesn’t mean he’s being avoided, right?

Still, he turns back to his car with a heavy heart, all of his half-cocked plans falling to pieces around him. He doesn’t know what else he can do at this point. He had hardly put any thought into this, hadn’t called ahead or had a contingency, which means that now—

The sound of hooves crunching in the half-frozen dirt pulls him from his thoughts, and Castiel spins around so fast he nearly loses his balance.

Dean comes around the side of the house, sitting astride the big, black horse Castiel has only heard of until this point. He clearly doesn’t see Castiel at first, but that just means Castiel has the opportunity to take him in for a moment without the stress of the same happening in return.

Unlike Castiel, Dean is dressed for the cold weather. His long fingers are concealed by gloves, and a heavy jacket bulks out his torso. There’s a pink flush on his cheeks, either from the cold or exertion or both, and Impala’s damp coat is radiating steam as he slows her to a walk. The horse is beautiful, tall and lean like her rider, but she doesn’t hold his interest nearly as much as said rider does. It’s been over a month since he’s seen him last, but Dean is still blindingly radiant.

Castiel’s next breath leaves him in the form of a lovesick sigh. It should be impossible for Dean to hear, but his head whips up toward Castiel anyway. His lips part as his eyes go wide with surprise, and in his shock, his reins slip from his fumbling, gloved fingers. Impala simply stops, her ears flicking back and forth as she watches Castiel, just as her rider does. It’s almost like she’s sizing him up—Dean simply seems amazed, as though what he’s seeing is an illusion born of steam and mist and frozen air.

He slides off of Impala’s saddle with practiced ease, then makes his way toward Cas with slow, measured steps. He stops only a few feet away, pulling off his gloves and then wringing them between his fingers to keep them occupied.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hi. Cas. I, uh.” Dean clears his throat, and Castiel sways slightly closer. He can’t tell if the pink in Dean’s cheeks is there because of the cold, or something else entirely. “I didn’t think you were coming back here.”

Castiel twitches a shoulder in a shrug. “Neither did I. But…” He spreads his hands.

Dean is silent for a long moment. “Why are you here?”

_Because you’re the love of my life. Because I can’t imagine being anywhere else. Because I can’t sleep at night without wishing I had your warmth beside me, can’t get out of bed in the morning without wishing you were there._

“Because…” Castiel wets his lips. Feeling bold, he steps forward and closes the distance between himself and Dean, taking the deputy’s hands up in his own and cradling them like they’re the precious treasures they are. He can’t meet Dean’s gaze, but his voice holds remarkably steady as he gives his answer.

“I love you. I want to be here. Lucifer is gone and Anna is safe, and I—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Dean’s lips are soft and sweet, and even the gentle scrape of teeth over his bottom lip only serves to make Castiel shudder. His chest heaves as he clings to Dean, and after the kiss ends, he buries his face in the man’s neck. He smells like dirt, and horse, and winter, and Castiel has never loved a scent more in his life.

This, Castiel realizes, is home. Not Sweetwater Springs—Dean.

And Castiel will never let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/).


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